


The Nature of A Soul

by Bennyhatter



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: 69ing, A little bit of interspecies mentioned but it's not explicit, Abused characters, Alternate Universe - Pre-Apocalypse, Anal Fingering, Begging, Bingo square fill, Blowjobs, Characters with bad self-esteem, Characters with natural magic, Control of weather, Daryl Dixon Needs a Hug, Daryl is conflicted, Daryl is earth, Daryl sees spirit animals, First Time, I really don't know, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Merle is fire, Pagan Themes, Probably some dirty talk later on, Punching someone in the face, Rick is a patient motherfucker, Rick is an empath, Rick is lightning, Shane is a good friend, Spirit Animals, What I am doing, scarred character, supernatural themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6486310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl has gone everywhere with a collie at his heels since the day he turned sixteen and the world opened up around him. He'd never known about magic, or spirit animals, or anything like that. He'd never known why he was so drawn to the forest, more at home amongst the trees than he ever was in his own skin.</p><p>He doesn't know why he's pulled toward Rick Grimes when he meets the man with eyes like summer storms and a presence that buzzes like electricity - who can make thunder roar and lightning flash with just a flick of his fingers. He's never met anyone like Rick, who prowls with the same grace as his lion soul and dances with the elements like he's done it his whole life.</p><p>Rick offers Daryl everything he's ever dreamed of, everything he's always been afraid to reach for, and Daryl falls into Rick's orbit like rain falling onto parched earth, soaking up everything and desperate for more. What starts as suspicion becomes something else entirely, and Daryl never realized love could be such a powerful thing that was capable of more than just leaving scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LinnetMelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinnetMelody/gifts).



> I was totally going to finish this completely before I posted it, but everyone over at RWG has been waiting so patiently, and dealing with the snippets I've been giving them, and I feel bad.
> 
> So.... I'm gonna post the first part of this now. And then post more later. And so on and so forth.
> 
> Here, guys. Have some spirit animal fic. <3
> 
> I'm using this to fill my "Stubborn" square on my bingo card. DARYL JUST LET RICK LOVE YOOOOOOOU.

Daryl has gone everywhere with a collie at his heels since the day he turned sixteen and the world opened up around him. Merle had blamed it on their witch blood, which apparently came from their momma’s side, and had taken him out into the woods while their dad was gone on another bender and tried his best to teach him everything he could. It was frustrating, because they didn’t run the same course for what they were and what they could do. Merle was fire, raging brightly and destroying everything in his path so he could rebuild from the ashes left behind. Daryl was the earth, sturdy and steady, bringing new life where the old had died and playing with the winds when they tugged at his hair and clothes and giggled at him to dance with them.

The collie wasn’t the only thing that showed up. He started noticing that animals were following _everyone_ , although most people couldn’t see them, and after he watched a woman walk straight through a basset hound lounging in the sun beside the chair of a man drinking coffee at an outdoor café, it took Merle explaining—in the rough, Merle way he tended to explain everything important—about animals and souls and hippie shit that was stupid even if it was true. So the animals weren’t actually there, but they _were_ , it’s just that most people couldn’t see them like Daryl could, because they weren’t _gifted_ like he was.

The collie is quiet, his eyes doe-soft and liquid brown, and his slender muzzle often tucks up into Daryl’s palm when his emotions run too high, a warm tongue lapping at his fingers always the fastest way at calming him. It doesn’t talk to him, but he can get feelings from the canine that remind him of rich, soothing earth and the wind through fat, green leaves and creaking branches.

It’s relaxing.

Merle has an osprey that usually perches on his shoulder or on the next closest object. It landed on Daryl’s lap, once, and even though it’s incorporeal and it doesn’t weigh anything, he’d still felt its presence in a way that was awe-inspiring to his young mind. He’d reached out and stroked its glossy feathers, feeling over its wickedly hooked beak, and when it had nipped the tip of his middle finger, a drop of blood had welled up and he’d flinched in pain. The collie had rested his head in the teenager’s lap, then, cleaning the wound and whining quietly, and the osprey had made a clicking chirp and fluttered away to perch on Merle’s shoulder while he watched television.

Daryl had spent the rest of the evening with his collie’s head on his knees, watching the osprey run its beak through what little hair Merle had. His brother didn’t react, like he couldn’t even feel it, but Daryl had been mesmerized. He’d stretched out on his ratty old mattress that night with his collie curled up at his feet and his eyes shining in the light of the moon, liquid and silver and full of wonder as he looked out the window into the swaying trees that towered at the edge of the forest, their branches crooked as they moaned and crooned and coaxed him to come and get lost amongst them, where he would be safe and free.

 

\--

 

 

There was a boy at school everyone called Billy. Daryl had never talked to him, but he’d stared at the tiny northern red cardinal that fluttered along and sang quietly whenever Billy looked sad about something. He had bruises that he tried to hide, too, and it gave them something in common, but it wasn’t enough for Daryl to break from his isolation just to share that pain with someone who might understand. Billy didn’t look like he was very eager for company, either, and they hardly shared a passing glance even when they sat right next to one another in English.

One day, Billy came into school and the cardinal wasn’t with him. Daryl couldn’t figure out what that was supposed to mean, because his collie hadn’t left his side since the day it trotted across a stream and sat at his feet, panting and looking up at him while its tail wagged and sprayed him with cool droplets of water.

A week after that, the teacher stood up at the front of the classroom and said that Billy wouldn’t be coming to school anymore, because he was dead. His mother drowned him in the tub, apparently—at least, that’s what the papers said, since the staff wasn’t going to outright tell students anything so horrific. Daryl didn’t feel sad that Billy was gone. If anything, he found himself feeling relieved, because even if it was a horrible way to die, at least Billy didn’t have to live through any more suffering. His soul was finally at peace.

After he came home from school, Daryl dropped his backpack and grabbed his crossbow, heading for the forest with the collie following as always. The trees sang a mournful song to him when he slipped amongst them, his crossbow raised as he readied himself for a hunt. They sang for a lost soul they never even knew, and he lowered his weapon for a moment and hummed along with them, the melody coming to him easily while the wind curled against his arms and throat in a loving caress and whisked away his silent tears.

That night, his father stumbled home and took a belt to him with no prompting, his eyes sparking like electricity and his skin almost seeming to buzz as he laid lash after lash across his son’s back and shoulders. Daryl gritted his teeth through it, refusing to give his daddy the satisfaction of seeing him hurting, and the collie whined and licked at his cheeks, lapping up any evidence and making it like it was never there. He went to bed bleeding and bruised, and when he’d curled up on his side to avoid aggravating the wounds and stared blankly at the door, he saw his daddy’s ragged-looking mongrel spirit as it crouched for a moment in his doorway, its eyes dark and its muzzle scarred. It looked at him, its whip-like tail limp and tucked between its hind legs, and it whined in sorrow. Daryl didn’t know what to do, so he just stared, and eventually it left on its own.

He didn’t see it again after that.

Will Dixon crashed his truck two weeks later and was ejected from the driver’s seat. He died instantly.

 

\--

 

When Daryl is happy, the trees groan under the weight of the leaves and flowers pop up all over their yard. Merle shakes his head and laughs at them, but he also takes great pains to not crush any beneath his heavy boots while he walks. Heat radiates from his brother’s skin like a furnace, and when he’s mad Daryl sometimes can see where the ground is scorched by his passage. He always makes sure to run his palms over the burned stalks of grass, his hands tingling as tiny, glowing green tendrils curl out from his palms and sink into the soil, bringing the life back that his brother’s temper has taken.

Once, when he was four years old, he remembers Merle getting so mad that the withered sapling in their front yard burst into flames. He’d been standing next to it, and the fire had caught so suddenly and with such violence that he’d been unprepared. He still has the burn scar on his side, the skin warped but no longer shiny. Merle gets very quiet when he sees it, something haunted in his eyes. It’s better than the ember color they’d been that night, his fiery soul flaring brightly as he and their father had screamed at each other.

Merle had been caught with cocaine early the next morning, had been hauled off to jail, and Daryl hadn’t seen him for months. He’d come back different after that, still volatile, but the fires in him were banked and burning low, only growing into something more when a situation really called for it.

Daryl never saw his fire again, not like he had that night, but he knew what to look for to assure himself it was still there. Even now, he still checks constantly to make sure the osprey is always with Merle, still stands closer than necessary sometimes to feel the heat rolling from his older brother’s skin, and if Merle has any suspicion as to why, he never voices it. He just ruffles Daryl’s hair a little harder than is comfortable and grins in a way that is both sharp and fond at once.

 

\--

 

Daryl names the collie Jax on his eighteenth birthday. He heard it on some stupid show, but the name’s got a nice ring to it. He’s learned well by now that Jax and every other animal he sees are spirits that represent peoples’ souls. It’s the only explanation he could come up with, after he looks it up one day in the library, hunkered down in the back on one of the ancient computers while a scowling librarian huffs and glares at him through the shelves—probably assumes he’s some hooligan looking up porn or something because of the state of his clothes. Jax lays down behind his chair and watches the woman’s ratty-looking terrier spirit as it sleeps in a patch of sunlight.

He leaves with plenty of daylight left, and doesn’t miss the way the librarian bustles over to the computer he used as soon as he’s heading out the door. She’s probably going to look up his browsing history, but all she’s going to find is Wikipedia pages and other random sites that talk about animal spirits and what they could represent.

Jax lopes along beside him, his head almost level with Daryl’s thighs, and he glances around to make sure he’s alone before reaching out and brushing his fingers through the soft, tan tufts beneath the collie’s ears. A warm tongue laps against his wrist, the fluffy tail wagging, and he smiles before letting his hand fall away as they approach the busier part of town.

Merle managed to keep their father’s house after Will Dixon’s death; it’s up in the mountains and far removed from civilization. No one’s there to judge them for lounging on boulders and sunning themselves without shirts to hide their scars, or being as loud as they want. Daryl runs through the forest barefoot more often than not, letting himself melt through the trees as he breathes in nature and exhales little curling flickers of silvery-green energy. It gets caught up by the wind and carried away, dissipating into the natural magics that swirl across the world. It’s a breathtaking thing to see, awe-inspiring to _do_ , and Daryl loves to sink his toes into the warm Georgia soil and feel the power tickle his soles and buzz against his arches.

It’s been a while since Daryl has meditated, and he’s wondering if that’s something he should do again when he hears commotion down a side-alley. He’s perfectly content to keep walking along, pretending to be oblivious, but Jax whines and swings toward the noise and it makes him hesitate. He hears a masculine grunt, followed by a rumbling snarl and the yelp of a dog that both echo in a way he’s come to realize means he’s hearing spirits.

Jax whines again, and he sighs in frustration and stalks toward the alley. It’s only early evening, so there’s plenty of light left to see by. Two young men—they can’t be much older than he is—are wrestling and slamming each other against the sturdy brick walls that border the alley. One of them is broader and a little taller, his hair and eyes darker. There’s a german shepherd and another animal fighting further down, mostly blocked by the two men as they brawl.

“The fuck’s this?” he snaps, raising his voice and crossing his arms. The man with dark brown eyes glares over at him, a bruise darkening the high point of his cheek and blood leaking from a split lip.

“Beat it, fucker,” he spits. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with you. Walk away.”

“Yer makin’ a scene,” Daryl points out, arching his eyebrows and hoping he looks as unimpressed as he feels. He’s not lying, at least—people are starting to gather, drawn by the noise. “Feel like beatin’ the shit outta each other, do it someplace else.”

“Hey, you went to our school.”

The other man steps forward. They can’t be older than twenty, and the archer eyes him warily as he moves closer. He’s got blue eyes that are caught somewhere between clear skies and gathering storms, darker blue ringing his dilated pupils and getting lighter as it moves out toward the outside of his irises. It’s a gay thing to notice, and Daryl’s willing to forgive himself this one minute slip—he’s not gay, he _ain’t_ —until Jax’s nose presses against his palm and he stares harder to keep himself from looking at the collie. Dark curls fall into those eyes, a strong, large hand reaching up absently to swipe them away. Daryl stares at the silver-blue lines that flicker and run beneath the man’s skin like veins visible only to those who can See; feels the hairs on his arms rise like a storm’s rolling in and smells the tingling, crisp swell of ozone that precedes or follows rain.

“So what?” he snaps, blinking until he can’t see anything but the adolescent lion that prowls from the deeper shadows, his golden eyes glowing as he looks at Daryl. He’s purring, his long tail twitching behind him, and when the beast starts to approach he finds himself stepping back quickly. “Town’s full’a kids that went ta that school.”

“You’re Will Dixon’s kid,” the other guy mutters, coming forward. He radiates entitlement and ego—the kind of guy Daryl would deem an asshole and stay the fuck away from—and when he tries to look deeper he only sees flickers of light that are little more than hopeful wisps. His shepherd limps up behind him, looking a little worse for wear after facing off against a lion, but the two of them already seem to have forgotten their disagreement. Either that, or their soul-animals are much more forgiving, because Daryl watches without being too obvious about it as the dog and the big cat curl up and start to groom each other.

These guys must be friends when they’re not fighting. It’s the only way to explain such obvious affection. Daryl stares at them, making it as clear as he can that he’s watching them in case he has to run—they’re older, and bigger, and the more obnoxious one looks like he might have been a jock who preyed on the “less popular” kids.

“So what?” Daryl growls again, glaring between them and noticing the way that the man with the magic flowing strongly through him is watching intently, his eyes sharp and focused like a hawk’s. “Fucker’s dead, an’ good riddance.” He starts to turn away, focused on _leaving_ now that no one is killing anyone, but the voice that’s low like thunder and sweet like clover makes him pause again.

“Wait, we didn’t mean to offend you. My name’s Rick.”

“I’m Shane,” his friend adds.

“I’m full of fucks I don’t give.” Glaring back over his shoulder, he eyes them again—can’t help the way his gaze keeps flickering to the lion, who has stretched out in front of them and is washing his enormous paws, or the shepherd who is sitting at Shane’s side and panting quietly while it watches Daryl with dark, intelligent eyes.

“C’mon, there’s no need to be like that,” Rick says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that sets off alarms in the archer’s mind. His eyes snap up again, but Rick isn’t looking at him. He’s looking down, like his eyes are caught somewhere around Daryl’s middle.

Or looking past him, at Jax. The collie is pacing, showing his agitation far more than usual, and Daryl’s thoughts light up with loud expletives as he spins around and runs. Jax follows, his head dipped low and his fur flattened against his body as the wind whips past them and tugs at Daryl’s clothes, whispering excitedly at him to get out of the town and back into nature, where he belongs. He can hear Rick calling after him, can hear Shane’s lower voice, but all he cares about is the fact that neither of them follow him. Daryl is allowed to run away, ducking through a back alley that will take him out across the railroad tracks and dump him back into the vibrant forest he loves so much, his magic spilling from his skin as he runs past trees and bushes and creeks. All of nature responds to him, silvery threads twining into his own essence and calming him better than anything else ever could.

Daryl is panting when he finally stops running, his chest heaving and his mouth open wide in startled gasps. Jax is panting too, and as soon as he sits down on one of his favorite sunning boulders—he made it home faster than he’d thought he was going to—the collie sprawls at his feet with his tongue hanging out and tries to cool down.

“Sorry, Jax,” he mutters, reaching out with a shaking hand to run his fingers through the long, silky fur. “Wasn’t expectin’ that. The fuck is that guy, anyway? He really see you?”

_Is he like me?_

Jax doesn’t have an answer for him aside from licking Daryl’s palm and wagging his tail, so he gives his soul animal a few gentle scratches behind his soft, floppy ears before laying back against the sun-warmed surface of the boulder and letting the heat sink into his tense muscles until he’s pliant and relaxed again.

Rick was staring at Jax. He _saw_ him. He wasn’t looking out into the street, or staring at Daryl’s dick—yeah, fat chance of that—or anything else. He was looking at _Jax_ , and the look on his face had been somewhere between curious and contemplative and pleased. Daryl has no idea what any of it was about, and it doesn’t really matter anyway. He’s never going to see Rick, or his douchebag buddy, again, so he can focus on more important things.

Daryl suns himself and meditates, sinking into the zen-like state he loves to drift through as he breathes in silver and exhales green, his mind thrown wide open to let the forest rush in. He becomes one with the plants and the dirt, his breaths like the playful, untamed winds, and focuses on a patch of dying wildflowers nearby—feeds a little bit of energy into them and watches through barely-opened eyes as they perk up and glow with life again.

The peace lasts all the way up until the wail of sirens shatters his serenity, and Daryl makes it home in time to watch a pair of uniformed officers haul Merle out of the house and slap handcuffs on his wrists.

 

\--

 

It’s almost dawn by the time Daryl crawls into bed. He’d spent the night being interrogated by so many different cops that their faces had all blurred together after a while. He’s exhausted and pissed off, because not a damn one of them had believed him when he’d said _repeatedly_ that _no, I didn’t know he broke into that guy’s house, or else I’d have beaten him ta a pulp myself fer bein’ so stupid long ‘fore y’all got here._

Jax is just as irritated, dropping onto the foot of the bed with a huff and chewing on one of his own paws. The poor collie had spent the hours being harassed by multiple different animal spirits. There was anything from a dog to a fucking _raccoon_ , who was apparently the soul animal of the officer who’d originally arrested Merle. Daryl had seen the thing crawl up the man’s slacks and perch on his shoulder, chittering angrily and batting at his brother’s osprey as it had shrieked and dove at the marsupial with its talons extended, like it was planning on grabbing the raccoon and making a meal out of it.

On one hand, Daryl wishes that the osprey _had_ eaten the damn thing. It would have been entertaining to watch, and would have gone a little way toward soothing his temper. On the other hand, he knows what happens to people whose soul animals aren’t around anymore, and he’s not sure he wants to know what would happen if one spirit killed another one.

Nothing good, probably.

Nudging the collie with a foot, he huffs at him and narrows his eyes when Jax nips angrily at his exposed ankle, the two of them glaring until Daryl finally slumps down and opens his arms. They are immediately filled by his animal spirit, soft fur tickling his arms and the scent of dirt and trees breathed deep into his lungs with every inhale. He presses his face into Jax’s throat ruff, chewing on his lip and trying to keep his magic from spilling out too much into the air around them.

This isn’t the first time that Merle has gone to prison. Hell, he was in Juvie for most of Daryl’s childhood. Back then, it was just Daryl and their dad, belts and pain and the sanctuary of the forest; months spent running and hunting and barely remembering to drag himself to school until the day came that Merle sauntered across the threshold and they were together again.

Things are different, this time. There is no Will Dixon to breathe down his neck. There is _no one_ , because even though his dad was the shittiest parent possible, at least he was still _there_. Now it’s just Daryl and Jax, who counts because he’s at least visible, but at the same time doesn’t, because he’s still technically a spirit. He’s a hell of a lot better than nothing, though, so Daryl holds him tight and falls asleep pretending that the moisture soaked up by the collie’s soft, thick fur is sweat and not tears.

His dreams are full of monstrous things. Daryl is chased by beasts unlike any he’s ever seen, his hands and feet morphing to paws and his bones shifting in a mix of fire and agony until he’s dropping down and running even faster through a forest that is unlike anything he’s ever seen before. The trees are blackened and dead, and corpses rise all around him, their skin burned and melted from their skeletons as they reach for him with crooked, broken fingers and snarl through gaping, bloody mouths.

 _This is where the world is headed,_ he hears, the voice deep and booming as he keeps running. He runs right off the side of a cliff, too clouded by panic to pay attention, but before he can plummet to his death there’s another agonizing shift and he’s being caught by a thermal and lifted high, his wings beating powerfully as he spirals above the destruction.

Daryl flies over the destroyed forest, letting himself be guided by an insistent tugging beneath his breastbone. He wings toward a broken, abandoned city and sees more corpses milling about, stumbling and hissing and falling upon anything living that comes their way.

 _Destruction is only the beginning,_ another voice whispers, soft and soothing like the winds that twine through his feathers and tickle his beak. _Even though fire destroys, it can also create. It lays the foundation for new life._

_Everything must die in order to be reborn._

The scene melts away, leaving him caught between the feeling of suspension and falling. He flaps uselessly, screaming in fear, and there’s a jolt as everything rights itself again, and suddenly he’s standing at the bank of a quarry lake. He’s naked and unashamed, the cool water lapping at his toes as he looks up the sheer, rocky sides of the quarry to see what’s beyond them before something calls for him to turn around and see the open clearing that grows into a lush, green forest. He’s never been to this place before, but it feels comforting to him. There is no city, no man-made anything. There is nothing but green and water and _life_ , and he’s already walking toward it when he hears the first voice again.

_The world belongs to the wildlings, Daryl. It belongs to those like you, who understand it for everything it has always been. The day will come, child, when we will take back what is ours from those who have never appreciated it. The world will be rid of selfish arrogance and unfiltered greed. It will be wild again. It will be ours, and it will be yours._

Daryl lays his palm on a tree and watches the way his magic sinks into the bark, silver-green and pure silver meeting and melding. Life _explodes_ into existence all around him, green leaves getting darker and heavier until the branches bend beneath the weight of them while wildflowers bloom in carpets of vibrant color all around him. The lake churns, creeping up the banks toward him, and as he looks around and sees only creation, his soul soars like a hawk and his heart leaps like a rabbit bounding through the underbrush. He laughs and laughs, lighter and freer than he’s ever felt, and he sees a flash of antlers from the corner of his eye; watches the shadow of a bird darken his flesh momentarily before it’s gone again.

_We will be waiting, Daryl. Be ready._

 

\--

 

There’s a lion in Daryl’s room when he wakes up.

He recognizes it instantly and scrambles to get out from under the covers, looking around wildly to see where Jax went and finding the collie basking in a patch of sunlight. He looks completely unguarded, his soft underbelly exposed and his head tipped back; his tail beating against the grimy carpet in slow, steady thumps as he watches the lion with sleepy brown eyes.

“The fuck’re you doin’ here,” Daryl hisses. The beast rumbles at him, deep and brassy and completely unaffected by his sleep-muddled display of aggression. “Get the fuck gone, kitty.”

 _That_ makes the big cat growl, his lips curling back from his thick fangs and his muscles bunching and relaxing beneath his sand-colored fur as he stands from where he’d been stretched out and lazing in front of the door. He’s easily twice as tall and almost three times longer than Jax, and he’s not even old enough to have a full mane yet. He’s still intimidating as all hell, and Daryl reflexively glances toward his crossbow even though he knows it will do him no good. Not that he would ever try to shoot someone’s soul animal, anyway—it’s more of a measure of comfort than anything else.

“I wouldn’t risk it.”

Whirling around, the archer glares out his window at Rick’s grinning face, caught somewhere between fury and horror at the fact that the man has probably been there for a while, watching him sleep and waiting. Jax rolls over and stands up, barking softly and trotting to the window to put his paws up on the sill and stand and look at Rick through the dirty glass, his tail swaying slowly.

“The fuck?” Daryl spits, feeling his conflicting emotions course through him and watching the wind whip Rick’s curls around in response to his agitation. “How the fuck did ya even find me?”

“You don’t do a very good job at hiding yourself.” Rick shrugs and leans an arm against the window, his eyes glinting with something _other_ , something ancient and powerful, as he looks Daryl up and down in a way that makes the archer want to flush and look away. To do so would be an act of submission in his mind, though, and so he meets Rick gaze challengingly and sneers. “Magic and energy is easy to follow if you know how to trace it back to its caster. You’ve left glimmers all over town and everywhere you’ve gone in the woods. Some of you has leaked into everything, and some of the forest’s life has bled into you as well. I just followed it.”

“Well follow yours the fuck back.” Crossing his arms, Daryl glares harder and tries not to show how uncomfortable he is about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of this stranger, whom just yesterday he saw fighting his supposed friend. “Thanks for th’ lesson, now fuckin’ _leave_.”

Rick’s eyes flash, and Daryl hears the distant rumble of thunder as a storm gathers to roll in. He feels his skin buzz in response, vine-like tendrils of silvery green snaking around his biceps and creeping up his throat in response to the sudden flood of crackling energy spilling from Rick, filling the air with the scent of ozone. It doesn’t feel threatening, more playful and curious as it wraps around the archer in a warm cocoon and coaxes like it’s trying to lead him closer. Jax barks loudly, his claws scrabbling at the glass, and Rick looks at the collie with a fond smile.

“You’ve got a good soul. Strong and protective and loyal.”

“The fuck would you know ‘bout it.” Grunting, Daryl narrows his eyes to slits and grinds his teeth. “You don’t even fuckin’ know me.”

“I know enough. I’ve _Seen_ enough. I want to be your friend, Daryl. I want to help.”

When Jax drops down and bolts out of the room, leaping over Rick’s lion without any sign of concern, Daryl jerks toward him but isn’t fast enough to catch him.

“Jax!”

The lion uncurls himself gracefully from his sprawl and pads after Jax, his tail swishing and brushing against the grimy walls while Daryl hesitates between grabbing his crossbow and shooting Rick through the window or actually going outside.

“Daryl, it’s okay. Just come on outside and talk to me.”

“Ya mean come outside so ya can fuckin’ murder me!” Twitching, he finally grabs his crossbow and slings it over his back, letting the strap cut across his bare chest as he turns to glare at Rick. The man rumbles, the sky darkens, and thunder grumbles with more force as the slate-grey clouds open up and rain begins to pour down. Seeing it, hearing it, _feeling_ the power of the storm down to his marrow, Daryl shivers. His soul yearns to play, his nature-based magic swelling like a rising creek until he’s brimming and about to overflow.

He can hear Jax barking excitedly over each rumble of thunder, and he finally lets his feet carry him toward the door. Daryl needs to know that Jax is okay, he needs to see him and feel his soaked, dripping fur and know that nothing bad is going to happen to him. His ears strain to catch the sounds of the collie’s exuberance through the loud pings of the rain on the roof of the house, tracking him with his ears and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I will never hurt you, Daryl,” he hears—the words soft enough to be intimate and ringing with an unwavering conviction that is solid to the core. It gives him the strength to open the door and stare out into the yard, where he can see Jax splashing around in puddles while Rick’s lion soul lounges on Merle’s favorite sunning rock. Without anything to muffle the sound, the rain is almost deafening. It looks like the kind of rain that washes away the muck of a world constantly sticky with grime and disease, leaving nothing but freshness and clean air in its wake. It looks like the kind of storm he has always loved to be out in, walking through the forest and coming home so wet and muddy that he wasn’t sure he would ever be dry.

It looks like _fun_ , and Rick is standing in the middle of the yard now, his arms spread and his palms open and extended toward Daryl, beckoning the archer to come out and play. His curls are plastered to his forehead, dripping water into his fathomless blue eyes that are so like the storm he has clearly summoned. Every bright flash of lightening that streaks across the sky, every puddle of water that grows slowly, every drop of rain that splashes onto Daryl’s hand and runs across his knuckles when he reaches out to feel it—all of them have hints of the man’s silvery-blue magic flickering and dancing through them. He watches it sink into the soil and meld into the earth, dripping down toward they ley-lines that run beneath the surface.

“Come on, Daryl. What harm could it do?”

_Ain’t that the question of the year._

Daryl closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and steps out into the downpour. He’s drenched instantly, his toes curling into the muddy grass and his tongue sweeping across his lips to catch the droplets that splatter there. Rain rolls down his bare torso, running in trails across his broad shoulders and down his spine, and he shivers when a warm burst of humid air gusts across his exposed scars.

He turns his face up toward the sky, his eyes fluttering closed as the energies of the earth buzz through him. Magic sparks from his fingertips and dances in arcs across his feet. He smiles as he soaks it up like a plant dying of thirst, opening his mouth and breathing all of it in. The feeling of Rick’s magic reminds him of thousands of tiny pricks of lightening, filling him with energy rather than hurt, and he opens his eyes to look at the man.

“The fuck you learn ta do this?”

“Around the same age you probably did.” Rick smiles and holds out his hand, and Daryl watches the air warp and blur before a small, glowing sphere grows into existence. It’s a swirling marble of silver and blue that grows until it’s the size of an orange, and he watches, transfixed, as it morphs from shape to shape.

“Ain’t never been able ta do _that_.” Daryl didn’t even know that was possible to do. He knows how plants and the earth react to him when he’s upset or happy—can still vividly remember Merle’s fire raging all those years ago and trace its destruction in the swath of warped skin on his side. Their magic was always triggered in that way by stronger emotions, though. He has never been able to gather it in his palm like Rick has; has never been able to just _play_ with it, and he watches the way the man warps it to his whim before snuffing it out by curling his fingers into his palm and making a fist. Daryl blinks and watches as the magic is reabsorbed into Rick’s body, linking back in with the rest and leaving him no worse for wear.

“You were never taught control?”

It’s probably not meant to be mean, but he bristles anyway and growls. They’re standing even closer now, only a foot or so of grass separating them, and he sees the way Rick’s eyes narrow slightly in response to his aggression. Lightning flashes and thunder roars, and a lone tree near the edge of the property is struck with enough force to blow pieces of the trunk twenty feet. A sliver slices across Daryl’s bicep, but he doesn’t look away as he feels the rain sting the wound and dilute the blood leaking free.

“’Course I was.” Shoving the older man back, he spins and stalks away. His feet sink into the mud, leaving behind deep footprints that begin to fill with water immediately. Jax is still playing, acting like a puppy instead of a fully-grown dog, and Daryl stops to watch him romp around and make a fool of himself, the white parts of his fur completely brown from the mud he can’t seem to stop rolling in. When Rick’s lion slinks over, he feels himself go tense and reaches back for his crossbow.

“Relax, Daryl,” Rick murmurs, coming up behind him until his breath blows hotly against the nape of the teenager’s neck. He shivers in response and twitches away, glaring at the other man. Rick just smiles and nods toward the two soul-animals. “Just watch. He is in no danger, I promise.”

Turning back around, Daryl keeps a hand on his crossbow strap just in case; blinks water out of his eyes and feels more drip from his lashes as he watches the lion stand over Jax, who rolls onto his back and kicks happily at the big feline’s face. He’s barking and wriggling, making even more of a mess of himself, and Daryl can’t help but chuckle as he sees what a goofball the collie spirit is being.

“Ain’t never been able ta tell why I could see ‘em but my brother couldn’t,” he mutters, watching how carefully the adolescent lion plays with Jax—batting gently at the dog and rolling him this way and that while Jax whines and barks and keeps coming back for more. He watches as they begin something it takes him a moment to realize is an animal version of tag, and he chuckles again as he shakes his head.

“Some of us have the gift for it. Some don’t. I’m sure your brother has gifts you don’t have.” Rick’s fingers flutter against his scarred side like he _knows_ , and the touch should feel unwelcoming, should make Daryl want to get as far away as possible or maybe punch the older man in the face, but all he does is shift from foot to foot slightly and tilts his head. The touch leaves as gently as it came, and he sighs out a wisp of silver-green that dissipates into the wind.

“Whaddya want with me?” Because Daryl isn’t stupid. There was no reason for Rick to track him all the way to his house, out in the middle of the forest and up into the mountain. If the man is here, it’s because there’s something he wants—something he stupidly assumes that Daryl can give him. He came a long way just to be disappointed.

“I want to help you, Daryl. I told you that.” A hand settles on his bare shoulder, squeezing gently, and he finds himself leaning into the contact slightly, lulled by the steady, comforting rain and the blissful warmth of the earth. He doesn’t let people touch him, usually—especially not when he’s half naked in front of them. Rick touches him like he matters, though—like he’s worthy of something that isn’t pain. Daryl’s not quite sure what to do with something like that after so long spent looking for the trap behind the façade. He feels those fingers move down his shoulder blades and brush over scars that are highly sensitive despite the extensive damage. Jax sits up and looks over, whining softly, and Daryl watches as Rick’s lion reaches out and drags him back down to begin grooming his filthy fur. Each rasp of the beast’s broad, rough tongue across Jax’s fur reaches Daryl like a dull, muted sensation. He’s never been so in-tune with his soul animal, has never felt things like Jax feels them, and each lick makes him shiver and twitch, his fingers curling toward his palms.

“Help me with what?” It’s quiet and confused, his voice deep and raspy as he sinks into a state that reminds him of meditation, something so calm and Zen-like that anger has no place there. He turns his head just enough to see Rick from the corner of his eye, and blinks slowly when the man reaches up and pushes his soaked bangs away from his temples.

“I want to help you learn who you truly are.”

 

\--

The sun is out again by the time they make it back into the house. Daryl has untangled himself enough from nature to be mostly cognizant, and when Rick reaches out to steady him he smacks the man’s hand away with a snort and strides back inside under his own power. He doesn’t really have anything to offer that isn’t beer or meat, so he digs out a glass from one of the cabinets and fills it from the tap.

Rick takes it without complaint, drinking deeply as if he hasn’t had water in days. Daryl stares at him for a minute, unsure of what to do about this man standing in his dirty kitchen, and then eventually he just goes and gets them each a ratty towel to dry themselves with. He’s still bare-chested, but he doesn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as he was expecting to. Even so, he makes sure to shut his door tightly when he changes into a pair of sweatpants, and he finds another pair he’s pretty sure is clean to throw at Rick when he comes back out and finds the man dripping in his living room.

Thankfully the carpet was ruined years before Daryl was ever born, and it’s not like his dad is alive anymore to go on a rampage over some puddles.

“Thanks,” Rick murmurs, beaming at him like he’s done something amazing. Daryl grunts and pulls on his tank top before sprawling out in Merle’s recliner. A spring digs into his spine, so he shifts around a bit until he finds a more comfortable position to lay in. As soon as he’s settled, Jax jumps up and lays across his lap. He ruffles the collie’s soft, damp fur and lets his eyes slide half-way shut until he hears Rick coming back down the hallway.

“Would’a offered a shirt, but ain’t got none that’re clean,” he mutters. When he gets a good look at the other man’s chest, he kind of wishes he _had_ found a shirt, or stolen one of Merle’s, because _Jesus_. Rick has a strong, toned chest and a hint of a six-pack at his abdomen, and a nice thick patch of chest hair that Daryl wants to rub his cheek against until his whole fucking face is red from the burn of it. God fucking _damn it_ , that is just not fair, and he looks down at Jax quickly because at least his soul-animal is safe to stare at. Jax’s tail wags, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as he pants happily, and the archer can’t help but smile a little when he gets a big, slobbery lick across his face.

“It’s fine,” Rick promises, and he sounds amused. A glance up shows that he’s rubbing the towel over his head, making his curls even more of a mess, and Daryl is ready to snap something when he runs a hand through them and his muscles clench and ripple with the action.

_Fucking Christ._

“So, that shit you were sayin’ before…” Daryl sticks his thumb in his mouth and rips at his cuticle, watching Rick from the corner of his eye when the man folds the towel and drapes it over the back of a chair before picking up his cup. When he holds it up questioningly, the archer nods permission for him to get more water—like he would have fucking denied the guy the right to get a drink, even if this is technically his house while Merle’s _away_.

“You don’t live here by yourself.” As if his thoughts have been read, Rick looks around at everything with a thoughtful frown on his face. “You have a brother, right? I think I remember somethin’ about him.”

Daryl snorts. “Druggie asshole got himself hauled in for a B&E charge. Probably snorted away all his brain cells when he was still fifteen’re somethin’. Fuckin’ dumbass.”

“He controls fire.” Rick’s eyes are a little unfocused as he frowns harder; his nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air. Daryl looks up, biting harder at his thumb until the flesh splits a little beneath his canine and a drop of blood wells up. He licks it away, the taste making him want a drink of his own. He’d probably grab a beer, all things considered. Illegal, but still satisfying. It’s been a while since he’s been able to just sit back and enjoy a cold one.

“Yeah. Ain’t answered m’damn question.”

Rick looks at him, his eyes sharp and _interested_. “You didn’t ask one.”

“What you said earlier, ‘bout helpin’ me learn who I am. The fuck you mean by all’a that? I know who the fuck I am.” Licking up a little more blood, he checks the split skin and determines that it’s not actually that bad, so he starts petting Jax to help keep himself calm. This isn’t something he gets to do much when he’s around other people—to them, it would look like he’s petting nothing but air. Rick sees Jax, though, he _understands_ , and all he does is smile as he sits on the couch and reaches down to run his fingers through his lion’s short mane. The big cat has emerged from the darker corners of Daryl’s house, having thoroughly explored everything. Nothing can improve their opinion of him, but nothing can make it worse, either, so he settles further into Merle’s chair and glares at Rick when he doesn’t immediately start talking.

“What do you know of the Gods, Daryl?”

That isn’t at all where he thought this conversation was going to start, so he blinks and huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously? Don’t believe in that shit. Never have.”

“Really?” Rick looks interested, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs so he can prop his chin in a hand and tilt his head. “Even though you can do these amazing things? You don’t think that comes from somewhere?”

Daryl shrugs and looks out the closest window, running his fingers through Jax’s fur to keep himself calm. “Never had a reason to. Jus’ knew everything went ta shit when I was sixteen, an’ Merle had ta haul my ass out into th’ woods ‘cause I couldn’t stop makin’ my room a damn jungle. ‘S when I started seein’ everyone’s animals, too. He helped me get it under control, so’s I stopped makin’ fuckin’ flowers bloom or wilt dependin’ on how bad m’dad hit me or how glad I was ta come home and find him gone.”

Rick’s eyes flash at that, and Daryl jerks in surprise when he sees tiny bolts of lightning flicker across the backs of the man’s knuckles and up his strong, defined forearms. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, and the archer eyes him warily. “You’re a good man, Daryl,” he says next, louder and with force behind the words. Daryl’s nose twitches when he smells ozone and the scent of heavy rains threatening. “You wouldn’t have these gifts if you weren’t. The Gods do not choose wrong.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Nudging Jax’s shoulder, he urges the collie to jump down so he can stand and grab himself a beer. Most of his scars are hidden by his tank top, and even if they weren’t, Rick has already seen them; has already _touched_ them, outside in the middle of a raging storm of his own creation, the two of them closer and far more intimate than Daryl has ever gotten with anyone in his entire life. The fact that _nothing happened_ makes it even more mindboggling to him, because if Rick is just looking to slum it up once, he’s pretty sure the man would have just tried to put him on his knees or his back. And then Daryl would have beaten the shit out of him, and it would have been a hell of a lot easier than whatever _this_ is.

He’s also pretty sure that there are plenty of better options to pick from than Daryl, who is barely past legal age and not at all nice to look at. He’s too rough, too wild, too aggressive by circumstance rather than by nature. He’s not even sure _what_ he wants—still isn’t sure his daddy won’t rise from the grave and beat him to a bloody, cruel death for the way the archer is looking at Rick from the corner of his eye as he pops the cap off his beer and drinks deeply. God, all of it’s probably natural instead of manufactured. He bets Shane is the kind of guy who spends four days a week in the gym, but there’s something so naturally graceful about the way Rick moves, every inch of him assured as he prowls around Daryl’s cluttered living room with his lion by his side.

“Wouldn’t touch that if I was you,” he mutters around the mouth of his bottle, making Rick look away from the ceramic jug he was reaching out to touch. “M’daddy used that fer his spittin’ tobacco. Ain’t been cleaned in years. Missed more’n he actually made it.”

“What do you want to do with your life, Daryl?” Rick’s hand falls back to his side, his posture relaxed as he turns to look at the archer. “What kind of goals do you have set for yourself?”

Daryl isn’t expecting those questions, and he frowns heavily as he drains the rest of his beer and sets the empty bottle in the sink before grabbing himself another one. The process of removing the cap is watched with rapt fascination, like it truly is something interesting to see when it’s more painful on his palm than anything. Taking a few big swallows and hoping for some liquid courage, he eyes Rick again and tries to figure out how the fuck he’s supposed to answer something like that.

“Gettin’ enough food ta last the week would be nice,” he mutters finally, his words dropping to a lower register and slurring out of him. One thing his teachers could never train out of him, the thing that despaired most of them above all else, was Daryl’s way of talking. It was too Deep South, too backwoods redneck. He is the cliché stereotype most people think of when they think of the South, apparently, and he grew tired of being told he should set a better example a long time ago.

He stopped talking at school not long after that. And then he just stopped going. He got enough shit from his dad and Merle without adding the affronted looks from people who he didn’t give a fuck about. They were bad enough coming from the few people who _should_ have cared, but could never quite dig deep enough to find it in themselves. Merle tried, he always has, but he can’t help his vices, and they make him cruel.

“I meant what do you want to _do_ , Daryl.” Rick tilts his head and looks at him earnestly. “What kind of job do you want?”

“Look at this place. You think a _job_ is gonna help me out with this?” Gesturing around the house, at the smoke-stained walls and the dirty, broken furniture, Daryl snorts bitterly. “You think a paycheck can fix this up, make it pretty? Think it’ll make me pretty? Think a few bucks’ll make a lick’a difference in my life? Ain’t graduated high school, asshole. The fuck kind’a job d’ya think I can expect ta get?” Dropping his half-full beer in the sink, he shoves away from the counter and stalks toward the door. Jax whines and licks at his fingers, trying to calm him. Daryl doesn’t push him away, but he doesn’t let himself be coddled, either. He kicks open the screen door and stomps out into the yard, feeling the way the ground squishes wetly beneath his bare feet; enjoying the way mud streaks across his sweatpants and gets them dirty. It’s a pretty good representation of himself, he thinks—something that can try its hardest to be clean again and again, but will inevitably end up mired in the filth it can never escape.

“Daryl, wait,” Rick calls, walking quickly and reaching out to grab his bicep. The man’s hand feels hot enough to brand, and he spins around to knock away Rick’s gentle hold.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he snarls; ignores his own words and slams his hands into the man’s bare chest to force him a few steps back. “The fuck you want from me, huh? Think you can make it rain a little and say pretty words and suddenly I’m all ears? Don’t give a shit ‘bout yer Gods, asshole. Don’t give a shit ‘bout yer _dreams_. Just get the fuck off my property an’ take yer damn sympathy with ya. Don’t need no fuckin’ _pity_. Ain’t never needed nothin’ from no one. Ain’t about ta start now!”

“Calm down.” Rick’s voice is low and rumbling, his storm-blue eyes dark but not threatening. “Just calm down, Daryl. This isn’t about pity. This isn’t a sympathetic gesture. This is me wanting to know _you_ , in all ways. Good and bad.”

Daryl paces like a caged wolf, his lips curling back as he bares his teeth and keens in frustration. “The fuck you wanna _know me_ for? Ain’t got jack shit worth knowin’, trust me. You best get gone ‘fore I give ya a reason ta limp away.”

“You’re worth more than you will ever realize,” the man whispers. His lion soul is growling, his tail lashing, but it doesn’t strike Daryl as an aggressive reaction. It’s more upset and frustrated than anything, like there’s something here that _Daryl_ isn’t getting and it’s upsetting to them. That makes him even angrier, and Jax growls softly—reacts to his emotions for once in a way he usually doesn’t. They’re on the losing end, though, because Rick’s control is impeccable, and his strength is measured. Where Daryl is a raging wildfire, the older man is a flowing stream; his course set and his direction unchanging unless a storm comes along to swell the banks. Daryl, on the other hand, is completely untamed, silver-green magic leaking from his skin and dripping to the ground, where grass grows thick and lush beneath his feet and the blades reach high enough to tickle his shins. A few bluebells bloom, swaying in a gentle breeze until the wind stirs up too much in response to his whirling emotions and shreds the fragile blossoms.

“Fuck you,” he spits, shoving Rick before turning his back to the man. “Get the fuck out of here. Now. Don’t need your bullshit, an’ I sure as fuck don’t need yer lies. So fuckin’ go, Rick.”

Rick doesn’t leave immediately—stares hard enough at Daryl that it feels like his nape is burning from the force of the man’s attention. When he finally does go, it’s quietly. The last thing Daryl has to deal with is the man’s lion licking at his knuckles, those luminous golden eyes glowing when they meet his hardened gaze. Then they’re both gone, and Jax is whining, and Daryl doesn’t know what else to do but go and curl up in bed again and wonder what the fuck Rick thinks he’s playing at. No one has ever told Daryl he’s worth _anything_ , and now here’s this man talking about power and magic like he lives and breathes it just like Daryl does—roaming the forest looking for _him_ and revealing a part of himself that no normal person would ever understand, something wild and secretive and dangerous that he controlled as easily as anyone else controls a car or a fucking television remote.

He watches Jax creep into the room and lay down beside his bed rather than at his feet, looking dejectedly up at Daryl and whining. He drops a hand over the side of the bed and runs his fingers through the collie’s thick coat, closing his burning eyes and tucking his face into the crook of his elbow; fisting his hair and pulling hard enough to hurt with the hand he’s resting his head on.

“No good can come of it, Jax,” he whispers, calling up a picture of Rick in his mind and biting his lip hard enough to nearly break the skin as he remembers the frustrated hurt in those dark, fathomless blue eyes and the rumbling purr of that deep, Southern-sweet voice. “Nothin' good can come from none’a it, pup. Mark my words.”

Jax whines again, and Daryl wants to whine too, wants to curl into a tight ball and hide away from everything for a while. He feels more alone than ever, even though he’s got nature all around him and running through his fingertips. Even though he’s got Jax, who is sitting up and licking at whatever parts of Daryl’s face he can reach, the two of them tangled up in one another in a way no one else could ever hope to match even though he still has trouble reaching out for the collie sometimes.

Daryl falls asleep and dreams uneasily of rotted hands stretching toward him, the hissing moans almost drowning out the bellow of a buck and the screeching cry of a hawk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got almost 30,000 words written for this already, I'm just posting it a little at a time for some reason. So.... expect more really soon? I've never really written and posted anything this way before. Usually I post it as soon as it's written. Doing it this way is... interesting?
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last one. The next one should be longer though, so yay~

Merle is going to jail, there’s no way out of it, but it’s going to be a while until the trial date. The idiot has pled not guilty _again_ , even though everyone knows he’s fucking done it, and since they’re poor white trash, there’s no way he has the funds to run before the trial. He’d try it anyway, the dumbass, so they release him with an ankle monitor. Which means he’s been home for the past three days and bitching up a storm the whole time. His osprey has been just as insufferable, chirping and clicking and biting at Jax any time the poor collie gets too close.

After the sixth time the damn bird bites his soul animal’s ear, Daryl has had enough. He grabs his crossbow and stomps toward the door, intent on going out and hunting enough to sustain them for a few days, of not a week.

“Aw, c’mon, little brother,” Merle whines at him. It’s a lot more annoying than it probably should be, and his puppy dog eyes don’t come anywhere near the sad, soulful looks Rick gave him. But he’s not thinking about Rick right now, or ever again—has seen neither hide nor hair of the man since he told him to get lost, and he hasn’t sensed him anywhere in the forest. He should be satisfied that his warnings were heeded, but mostly Daryl is just sad and pissed and a whole other slew of things that are churning together and turning him into one unpleasant person to be around. “Ol’ Merle ain’t seen his baby bro in _days_.”

“The best days I’ve had all year,” Daryl mutters, checking his bolts and making sure his fletchings aren’t frayed. “Ya wanna eat, ya goddamn pain? Can’t go more’n fifty feet from the house with that thing on.” He gestures to the ankle monitor, arching his eyebrows and probably looking about as unimpressed and fed up as he feels. “How ya expectin’ ta catch a rabbit or a squirrel an’ not get thrown the fuck back in jail?”

“Stupid pigs should just mind their own damn business,” his brother huffs, kicking his foot like a spoiled brat and scowling at the blinking light that lets them know the unit isn’t malfunctioning. If it does, or if Merle goes out of the range he’s been allowed, then the cops will show up and haul him back to jail. As much as Daryl doesn’t want to deal with Merle right now, he’d rather have his grumpy sibling home to help ease the loneliness that’s been clenching his gut and making him feel sick ever since he threatened to beat the shit out of Rick if he didn’t leave him alone. God, he’s turning into his dad, and that is not at all a good realization to have.

“Yeah, well, stupid fuckin’ _you_ shouldn’t’a broken into that house. Would have saved us a lot of fuckin’ trouble.” Shaking his head, he flicks a few fingers toward the osprey, which clicks its beak at him while Merle settles deeper into his chair to nurse his beer and grumble some more. He’s not going to be moving any time soon, so Daryl heads out with Jax at his heels to see what kind of game he can bag them for their next few meals.

It’s a gorgeous day, even despite the blistering heat. Georgia can be nigh-on unforgiving in the middle of August, but Daryl has grown up in this state, has nursed at her streams and fed from this forest, and if he couldn’t handle a little bit of heat and sweat, he wouldn’t be a Southern boy. He feels more sorry for Jax, who is already panting as he tries to keep himself cool.

“C’mon, boy, let’s find you a stream to play in while I get dinner,” he murmurs, and the collie perks up at that, his doe-soft eyes shining with excitement as his fluffy tail wags. He really is a gorgeous creature, long-bodied and with a proper collie coat; low and lean and lightning-fast. Daryl wonders what he would have looked like as a pup, stumbling along after the infant archer and probably trying to nudge him up again every time he fell down. He thinks those ears would have been even more adorable than they are now, and he can’t help but reach down and rub one between his fingers to feel how warm and silky it is. Jax licks him, yipping happily, and then bounds toward the stream they always end up at, crashing through the underbrush but hardly making a sound—not that he would have anyway, considering he’s not flesh and blood the way Daryl is. The hunter has spent years tracking his game, though, and even when he's in heavy boots he barely makes any noise as he moves along. Today he’d been in too much of a hurry to shove his feet into them, so he’s barefoot and soaking up the peaceful atmosphere of the forest, breathing in silver and breathing out green as a smile curls the corners of his lips up and the tension in his shoulders eases.

The woods are alive with all manner of critters, and he picks off a few plump rabbits within the first half hour. He forgot to bring a bag along with him, so he carries them along by their ears and only lays them aside when he’s got his sight fixed on a squirrel. The small, furry creature is chewing its way through an acorn, its tiny ears twitching as it looks up every once and a while to check for danger. Daryl is hidden well, though, and the squirrel is none the wiser until it hears the rush of his bolt through the air. By then it’s too late, the tip slamming home, and he watches it fall from the tree, the bright yellow and green fletching an easy beacon for him to follow as he goes to collect it.

“You really are good at that.”

Daryl doesn’t jump, but he does twitch and sigh in frustration even as his heartrate speeds up. He refuses to look at Rick until after he’s picked up the squirrel and checked to make sure it was a clean shot—that he hasn’t damaged anything that would make the meat useless to him. Once he’s satisfied, he slides the bolt back into the bare quiver and turns to look at the man he hadn’t even known was following him.

Some hunter he is.

“Whaddya want, Rick?” he grunts. He can see Jax from the corner of his eye; his collie enjoying the cool spring water with a look of bliss on his face while Rick’s lion sits on the bank and watches unblinkingly.

“To see how you’re doing. Heard your brother came home, so I figured I’d give you two a few days and then come and try and say hello again. Hopefully without causing any distress this time.” The way he smiles is a little sheepish and self-deprecating, and Daryl doesn’t like what it does to his handsome face. The archer lets out another gusty sigh and runs a hand through his sweaty, tangled hair.

“You heard that, huh? Just around town, I bet. Wish people’d fuckin’ mind their own goddamn business.”

“Heard it from my dad, actually. He’s one of the ones who was on desk duty when they released your brother.” Rick has obviously decided that it’s safe to come a little closer, considering Daryl hasn’t started screaming at him yet. He probably won’t anyway—not right now, at least. He’s tired from too many nights of bad sleep, and worn out further by Merle’s constant bitching, but escaping into the forest is helping him out just as much as he’d figured it would.

“Dad’s a cop, huh? Figures. Ya always know how ta pry and put yer nose where it ain’t wanted. Too damn good at it, too.” Turning away, Daryl follows the creek and pulls a fishing arrow from his quiver; pausing to draw his crossbow’s string and barely noticing the pinch and sting of catching his fingers when he’s going too fast and not paying enough attention to be safe. One of them is bleeding a little bit, but he waits until he’s got the arrow in place before he sticks it in his mouth and sucks away the droplets of red. He ignores the coppery taste of his blood, scanning the rippling surface of the stream once he’s far enough down that Jax’s floating and splashing won’t have disturbed any of the fish.

“I’m not sure if that was supposed to be an insult, a compliment, or some strange mixture of the two,” Rick huffs at him. He’s grinning, though, and his eyes are bright, so Daryl figures he can’t be _too_ insulted. They fall into an easy silence, and the man’s presence is more comforting than he’d like to admit, so Daryl tries his best to ignore the way his skin is prickling with warmth that isn’t entirely the fault of the sun as he slowly raises his crossbow and makes sure he’s standing in a way that won’t throw his shadow over the water. Rick watches, curious and keeping his distance so as not to disturb the archer. He’s silently grateful for it, but overall a lot more focused.

One of the dark shapes in the water pauses, and Daryl shoots before it gets the chance to start again. The arrow slams home, the bright end of it bobbing just above the surface, and he watches the other shapes dart toward the safety of their burrows as he slips into the stream to retrieve what he’s pretty sure is a decently-sized catfish.

“How long have you been hunting?”

Tossing the fish up onto the bank first, the archer hauls himself out after it and ignores the hand that extends to help him if he’d be willing to accept. He’s not, and Rick doesn’t look offended, so he figures it’s fine.

“Since I was old enough ta hold the bow m’brother taught me with,” he snorts, remembering being six years old and barely having the arm strength needed to pull back that damn thing. It was an old compound bow—probably stolen, but it fed them well, so none of them really cared. As soon as he’d been big enough, he’d switched to the crossbow that Merle had obtained _legally_ from an outdoor flea market, and he hasn’t picked up a regular bow since. There’s something so lethal and beautiful about his crossbow, so final and brutal, but elegant as well. Which is probably way too much thought to be putting into a weapon, but it doesn’t stop him from doing it.

Rick looks impressed, but also sad, like the thought of such a young child needing to learn how to survive is upsetting to him. As if reflecting his mood, the cloudless sky begins to turn dark and overcast as rain-heavy clouds roll in. Daryl frowns when he looks up at them.

“Thought you said you was better at control.”

“I am,” the man says, looking up as well. His expression twists to something the archer can’t quite figure out, so he doesn’t try. “That doesn’t mean that nature won’t react all the time, though. Natural magic is a powerful, fickle thing. It does what it pleases, regardless of what anyone else tries to tell it.”

It sounds like an excuse, but Daryl knows from experience that he’s telling the truth, so he lets it go and heads back toward his house. With the game he’s already caught, he’s running out of room to carry everything. His crossbow is resting in its usual place against his back, which leaves his hands full of what he’s already killed. He’ll drop it off for Merle to prepare for either dinner or storage or preserving, grab his bag, and come back out for more.

Jax splashes out of the stream, barking happily and running ahead while Rick’s lion thunders after him. The two of them frolic through the forest, playing tag around the trees and nipping at each other’s flanks and legs. It reminds Daryl of children playing, and his chest feels lighter because Jax is so obviously happy. He smiles and shakes his head, but he doesn’t try to stop them, and neither does Rick.

“So you wanna be a cop like yer dad?”

The question spills out before he can think to stop it, and he almost stumbles over a gnarled root. Rick is quick to catch him, his hands warm and steady as he braces Daryl until he’s got his feet under him again and his cheeks are flushed from embarrassment.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and worried. When Daryl looks up, their faces are only inches apart, their breaths mingling. His heart stutters, his air hitching in his throat, and Rick’s eyes darken a little, dropping to look at the archer’s mouth. Anticipation crackles between them like little bolts of lightning, shivering across Daryl’s skin. He can feel the ferns growing and draping over his feet, the fronds tangling around his ankles, and he has to stop this. He needs to pull away, needs to _leave_ , but then Rick is leaning a little bit closer and the teenager’s eyes are fluttering closed—

“Daryl!”

Fucking _Merle._

“What!” he shouts back, turning his head just enough so he’s not screaming the word right at Rick. The tension snaps and falls away like a window breaking, and he spins to glare through the trees at his brother. Merle can’t see them fully, which is a _very good thing_ , but Daryl can see the older Dixon pacing at the edge of the perimeter he’s been allowed, and he knows he’d better go and see what his asshole brother wants before Merle decides to try and come too far and the cops show up.

“Yeah, I wanna be a cop,” Rick whispers, reaching out and squeezing Daryl’s shoulder quickly before he starts to back away. Daryl watches him go, feeling his frustration growing again as he watches the man leave. As badly as their last encounter had gone, he’d actually been enjoying himself this time. Which is stupid, because they’d hardly talked at all before he’d shoved his own foot in his mouth and Merle had subsequently ruined everything else. “See you around, Daryl.”

After he and his lion are gone from view, Daryl whistles for Jax and stalks back to the house; shoves the kills into Merle’s hands roughly on his way past to grab his bag.

“Fuckin’ do somethin’ with those,” he snaps, and Merle narrows his eyes dangerously.

“What crawled up your ass an’ died, Darleena?” he snips, but he keeps hold of the game and stomps into the house to drop it on the mostly-clean counter. His knife has been strapped to his hip since the moment he got home and grabbed it, and Daryl watches from the corner of his eye as his brother begins to skin the rabbits and toss what can’t be used into the sink to be dealt with later. Blood runs across the faux-wood surface, dripping over the side into a slowly-growing puddle of dark, lost opportunities. This rabbit will never birth another litter, will never run and be free, but her life has been sacrificed by them so that they may continue life in her stead.

Sending a few silent words of thanks to all of the animals he’s killed to keep living, Daryl hesitates in the doorway and waits until Merle looks up at him and makes a questioning noise. They eye each other, and Daryl swallows thickly as he tries to will the words to come from a throat that suddenly feels too tight from nerves.

“Glad yer home,” he finally manages to get out, and Merle looks back down at the gutted rabbit he’s working on as the temperature in the room fluctuates wildly for a second. It’s the biggest tell Merle has ever had, ever since he banked his fires. “I miss you when ya ain’t here,” he adds, and then he winces, because he’s going to have to deal with Merle not being there for a while, and he’s not sure how well he’s going to cope.

“Enough sissy shit, little brother,” Merle mutters, glancing up at him again. Both of them feel how the temperature continues to warp until it finally settles on something just shy of too warm—the best reaction Daryl can hope for, because words don’t mean shit in most situations, but their magic can never lie. “Go on and get us some food, now. Kick off them high heels an’ put down yer purse. It’s big boy time.”

“Fuck you, Merle.” Daryl rolls his eyes, but when his back is to his brother he doesn’t try to hide his grin. He sees the osprey perched on the back of Merle’s chair, and it tilts its head at him when their gazes meet. “Don’t eat all the fish.”

“I’ll eat all the damn fish if I want to. You wanna stop me, then get back with some real grub ‘fore s’all gone.”

Jax barks, and Daryl flips Merle off over his shoulder before slamming the door shut behind him. He’s still grinning as he slips back into the forest, intent on catching them enough and spending what time with his brother that he still can before he’s gone for who the fuck knows how long this time.

Hopefully it’s not too long. Daryl really does miss him when he’s not around, even if he is a jackass. Merle still cared enough to show him what little control he has, in order to keep him as safe as either of them can be with the odds already stacked so high against them. His brother is his only family now, just them against the world, and maybe one day Merle will even let his fires free again.

Daryl hopes so. They were always so warm when they weren’t stoked by rage.

 

\--

 

The jury finds Merle guilty—obviously—and he’s sent to jail for two years. _Apparently_ he had also assaulted the guy who’s house he’d broken into, which _of fucking course he did, god damn it Merle_ , and he’s just lucky they didn’t decide to lock him away for even longer considering his prior history. Daryl gets to say goodbye at least, which is a horrible mixture of nice and painful, because Merle’s osprey is _shrieking_ loud enough to wake the dead, and one of the guards’ soul animals, which is a flying squirrel, ends up as a casualty of the raptor’s anger. He tries to hide his wince as the poor thing is ripped apart, and the unbearable sadness at what he knows is going to follow makes him hurry out of the building with Jax glued to his side.

“Daryl.”

Rick’s quiet voice halts him as easily as if the man had shouted. He doesn’t look over, just stands with his fists clenched at his sides and his eyes burning as he stubbornly fights back the tears. This isn’t the first time Merle’s gone to prison, damn it. He shouldn’t be acting like a bitch in front of so many strangers. He shouldn’t be acting so weak at _all_ , because Merle raised him better. His brother expects him to keep his head high and his shoulders strong, because they’re Dixons, which means life is only ever going to throw shit at them, but that’s just because their spines are stiff enough to keep them upright while they take it.

“C’mon,” the man coaxes quietly, stepping up to his side and brushing his fingers against the archer’s trembling arm. “I’ll take you home.”

“No,” he bites out, the word fragile but still sharp enough to feel like it’s cutting his own tongue. “No, not there. Not yet.”

_Not that empty fucking house that ain’t even mine, that ain’t got enough good memories ta hold onto long enough._

A hand cups the back of his head, fingers running through his hair and petting him the way he often finds himself petting Jax. He slumps into Rick’s welcoming weight, his limbs heavy and his eyes feeling dry and hot and wet simultaneously. Jesus Christ, he’s being such a fucking baby. He should know better than this by now.

“I need you to breathe, Daryl. In nice and deep, out slow and careful. You’re letting too much through.”

He knows he is; can see his magic flowing from his fingers and the way the plants around the courthouse are reacting to the surge of energy. They’re growing taller and thicker, flowers blooming and weeds spreading like carpets. He tries to rein it in, tries to get it under control, and he finds himself swaying slightly to the rumbling cadence of Rick’s voice as the man continues to talk to him softly while they walk. Fingers close around his wrist, offering him an anchor, and he accepts gratefully while Jax and the lion pad ahead of them, their sides pressed together tightly until their fur mingles. It should be comical to see his collie beside a beast so much larger, but it just feels like safety to Daryl.

“Where are we going?” he whispers, his voice low and rough. Right now, he almost doesn’t care, just so long as he doesn’t have to go back to that house yet. He should just burn the damn thing to the ground—there’s nothing left for them there anyway except bad energy and ghosts that should have been sent on their way a long time ago.

“We’re going to my apartment. It’s not far, I promise. Just keep breathing, Daryl. In, and out, nice and slow and steady. Imagine you’re building a wall between yourself and everything else—something to contain but not capture. Don’t make yourself a prisoner in your own body. It can be bricks, or sticks, or even blades of grass—just so long as it’s there until you’re ready to unmake it.”

Daryl has never heard of anyone doing anything like that before. Then again, there’s a lot of things he’s never heard of and never experienced, and so far Rick hasn’t done anything to try and hurt him—only the opposite. Taking a deep breath, he imagines himself building a wall, just like Rick has instructed. Grass sounds too weak, too easily torn apart by the winds, and bricks sound too unnatural for him. He settles on the sticks, but he imagines that they’re thick branches instead, weaving together and interlocking until his magic settles and pulls back into himself and the plants around them stop bursting into bloom out of season.

“There you go,” Rick croons, rubbing a hand between his tense shoulders until they loosen and his head drops forward. He doesn’t recognize where they are—doesn’t even try to pay attention as he’s ushered into a building and guided up two flights of stairs. One of Rick’s hands leaves and he hears the sound of a key sliding into a lock; the click of tumblers before the door swings open and they step inside.

“What do you need, Daryl?”

“Water would be great,” he croaks, feeling like he’s been swallowing sand with how rough and dry his throat has become. He watches the man head into the tiny, cramped-looking kitchen and slumps back against the wall, trying to keep his breathing even and steady. At some point he closes his eyes, listening to Jax wander around and investigate everything, and he sinks into a meditative mindset until a gentle touch at his elbow rouses him. Rick is holding a cold bottle of water out to him, and he blinks stupidly at it for a second before taking it and twisting off the cap.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for that. Just drink, Daryl. Would you want to watch a movie or something? I’ve got books, too.”

“Don’ matter,” he mutters, sipping the cold, refreshing water and trying not to moan at how good it tastes to him after so long of having nothing but tap water that wasn’t exactly safe to drink. That or beer, and after a while the taste of bitter hops gets too annoying to stomach. He’s not much of a beer drinker anyway, unless he’s really agitated, so he hasn’t been properly drunk since not long before his dad died.

“Come on in and sit down.”

Rick leads the way into a small but neat living room. The furniture looks like thrift shop buys, and nothing really matches, but they’re clean and there are no visible springs, and when Daryl sinks into the recliner he ends up melting the rest of the way into it with a sigh. He’s chuckled at, and he makes a face when Rick shakes his head fondly, but then Jax jumps up and sprawls over his lap and he gets distracted petting the collie and watching Rick’s lion stretch out in front of the large double sliding glass doors to relax himself in the sunlight pouring through the clean, unobstructed panes. There’s a small balcony with an empty ashtray balanced on one corner, and a few lawn chairs. He wonders what it would be like to sit out there and smoke, but he’s barely got enough money to buy food, much less cigarettes.

“What’s his name?”

It takes Rick pausing with a movie in his hands and looking over at him for Daryl to realize that he’s said that out loud. Groaning, he runs a hand over his face and tries to will the burning prickle out of his cheeks. God, what is it with him and never being able to keep his mouth shut around this man? It can’t just be because he’s nice to look at. Although now that they’ve spent a bit more time together without his asshole friend _Shane_ around, Daryl is beginning to see that Rick is a lot more mature and level-headed than he’d thought. And a lot less creepy too.

“His name?” Rick glances at the lion, and Daryl manages to sit up enough so he can reach over and lift the footrest before he settles back into place.

“Yeah, his name. This is Jax, obviously.” Rubbing between the collie’s ears, he smiles when his soul animal yips softly and nudges at his hand for more. “So, what’s his name? You really gonna tell me you ain’t named him?”

Rick laughs. “Oh, no I have. It’s just… it’s kind of silly.”

“Silly,” Daryl deadpans back, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, now I’ve _gotta_ know. C’mon, spill. What’d you name your big fluffy kitty?”

“Nathan.”

“ _Nathan._ ” Daryl can’t help it; he snorts. “Ya mean like that kids’ book or whatever?”

“ _No_ ,” Rick huffs at him, crossing his arms and honest-to-fuck pouting. “No, not that. Is there actually a kids’ book about a lion named Nathan? You know what, never mind. No, I got his name from a movie. _This_ movie.” He holds it up so Daryl can see the cover and read the title.

“What the fuck is a genetic opera?”

Rick’s grin is slow, and a little bit too manic. Daryl eyes him warily and wonders if he should try to run, but before he decides a title screen pops up and Rick hits play. He makes himself comfortable on the couch, picking the side closest to Daryl and curling up with a happy sigh. “I hope you like this. It’s one of my favorite musicals.”

“You watch musicals? You strike me as a sports movie guy.” He’s not trying to be mean, but he’s not sure why Rick thought a musical would be a good way to calm Daryl down. It’ll probably end up boring him to sleep, although he finds himself curious about the opening credits and the comic-book style drawings that pop across the screen.

“Just give it a chance.” Rick grins at him, and this one is softer, more intimate. It makes Daryl’s breath hitch, and he looks away again. “You’ll love Graverobber, I bet. He’s awesome.”

“We’ll see,” Daryl grumbles, and he’s glad Rick looks away so he can’t see the small, bemused smile that curls across the archer’s lips when it hits him that he’s sitting in Rick’s apartment on a Tuesday, and they’re watching a movie together. The man probably has a lot more interesting or exciting things that he could be doing, but instead he came to the courthouse to make sure Daryl was okay, and now they’re in his living room and they’re watching a _musical_ , and he can’t actually remember the last time he felt this relaxed.

He hopes this Graverobber character is as awesome as Rick claims.

 

\--

 

Graverobber is fucking awesome all right. He’s also _ridiculously_ hot in a grungy, punk-like way, and his voice is _incredible._ God, Daryl has to keep shifting every time the actor hits the low notes in a song, because it _does things_ to him. Rick is grinning like he’s won some kind of prize, and Daryl knows the man is watching him squirm from the corner of his eye.

Shiloh is a sweet girl, and she doesn’t deserve the shit her dad is putting her through. He also sympathizes with Nathan’s side of things, though, and as he watches the man work through his obvious issues, seesawing between stable father and raving murderer, he can somewhat understand why Rick chose to name his soul animal after the man. Nathan is quiet and unassuming most of the time—completely devoted to his daughter and willing to do whatever it takes to keep her safe. At the same time, there’s a monster that lurks just beneath the surface, and when it is unleashed the outcome is violent and disastrous.

Daryl can see that in Rick’s lion. He has never seen the big cat actually enraged to the point of violence, but there’s a threat of it that hangs between the man and his soul animal like a dark, roiling thundercloud just waiting for the moment to open wide and pour its destruction upon whatever unwitting soul tips things too far in the wrong direction.

“Fuck that asshole,” he mutters when he sees Rotti Largo the first time, and it’s a mantra he continues throughout the whole movie. Rick seems to find his irritation of the man annoying, and even joins him in cursing the entire Largo family on more than one occasion—even flips off Amber Sweet a few times, and Daryl feels a ridiculous little curl of pleasure that Rick is showing him something that means so much to him. It feels a little bit like an exchange, because the man has already gotten to see Daryl’s forest, where he feels the most relaxed and at home. The woods are special to him, and this is special to Rick, and as musicals go it’s not anything like what he was expecting.

He likes it. A lot.

“Fuck, he’s so goddamn hot,” he mutters as he watches Graverobber sing about Zydrate and surgery. And then he freezes, his fist clenching around his empty bottle and crushing it with the loud crinkle of plastic crumpling under too much force. Rick just looks over at him, lazy and happy and smiling as he relaxes into the pool of sunlight that has managed to reach him.

“Yeah, he really is,” he agrees, and Daryl tries not to read too deeply into that blasé statement. It could mean anything, really, but when he tries to look over discreetly, Rick isn’t watching the movie anymore. He’s looking at Daryl, and his eyes are a little darker than usual, and the teenager can see his magic pulsing just beneath the surface.

“Didn’t know guys were your thing,” he says lightly, trying to play it off as a joke and probably coming off as more awkward than anything else. Jax lifts his head and Nathan looks back over his shoulder, his long tail twitching across the carpet in a way that mesmerizes Daryl a little bit. He swallows thickly and sets his bottle down on the little table between the recliner and the couch; smooths his hand over the suede-like fabric of the chair and wishes he had something else to drink, because his mouth and his throat are dry again and his tongue feels thick and sticky.

“It never came up in conversation,” Rick replies quietly. He sits up and doesn’t take his eyes off of Daryl, cataloguing his every reaction and probably trying to deduce a lot more from it than Daryl is hoping for. “Thirsty, Daryl?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, burying a hand in Jax’s fur and trying to keep his breathing steady and even. _It don’t mean nothin’_ , he tells himself, watching Rick as he slowly stands and stretches—how his t-shirt rides up a little bit and reveals a sliver of tanned skin that Daryl wants to put his mouth on and _bite_. It’s not fair, really, that he keeps finding himself so close to someone like Rick, and that they keep getting closer. It feels like they’re on a collision course, and no matter how much either of them try to swerve, the end result is going to be the same. They’re going to crash, and it’s either going to be a slow, burning thing or a fiery blaze that cannot hope to be contained. He’s not sure which one he’s hoping for more, because for all that Rick keeps finding him, keeps opening up and offering him things he never even knew he might want, Daryl is still terrified of how this will turn out.

Rick scratches at his stomach once his shirt is in place again, glancing at the movie before heading into the kitchen while leaving it playing for Daryl. The archer watches it, trying his best to focus on the characters and the storyline when he can hear Rick rummaging around in the kitchen. When he comes back with another cold bottle of water, their fingers brush as Daryl reaches out to take it, and he blinks in confusion when the man doesn’t let it go quite yet.

“Rick?”

“Is me liking guys going to make things awkward, Daryl?” he asks bluntly. Daryl tries not to look like someone just slapped him across the face, but he’s pretty sure he’s failed. “I know it’s not everyone’s thing, and I know we live in the south, but I need to know. Are you going to have a problem with me liking men?”

“No,” Daryl whispers, watching as his fingers start to shake lightly where they rest over top of Rick’s on the cold plastic bottle. He wants to snatch it away and guzzle, wants things to settle back into the ease they’d had before, but now all he can think is _Rick likes men_ , and it’s becoming very hard for him not to crawl across the armrests and settle with his knees on either side of Rick’s thighs so he can show him how okay with this he is.

“You like guys too, don’t you.”

He can’t for the life of him determine if that’s supposed to be a question or a statement. He nods regardless and finally gets the water away from Rick, breaking the seal with trembling fingers and almost spilling it on himself when he tries to get a drink because he can’t keep his hands still. “Yes,” he murmurs, hoping that single whispered word is drowned in the cold, crisp water trickling down his throat. “What do you want from me, Rick?” he adds, and thankfully his voice is louder and even this time. He looks up at the man, meeting those fathomless eyes and shivering when he sees tiny sparks of lightning gathering in the hairs at those strong, smooth temples.

“Nothing you are uncomfortable with, Daryl.” Rick finally moves away and sits on the couch again, his legs tucked up underneath him like they were before and his posture relaxed as he rests his chin on a palm and goes back to watching the movie. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped any boundaries. I can get a little intense when I’m really focused on something.”

“I’ll say,” Daryl mutters into his own wrist, trying to focus on the movie again. He manages pretty well, once Rick isn’t staring at him like he’s trying to burrow beneath Daryl’s flaying skin and crumbling control. He shouldn’t be feeling like this, not after so little time—not about a _man_. He’s not a homophobic asshole, he knows how he feels and he’s accepting of _other_ people being gay, but he’s not nearly as comfortable with himself. Maybe it’s the years of abuse suffered at the hands of a man who hated everything his children were. Maybe it was even Merle, partly, for all of his slurs and misogynistic bullshit.

Jax turns on his lap to face him, tucking his nose along the front of Daryl’s shirt and nuzzling as he voices his distress in a series of barely-audible whines. He pets the collie and watches the movie, his throat tight and his eyes burning while his magic swirls beneath his skin, trapped behind a wall of gnarled branches and trembling buds.

_He holds no power over you anymore. He’s dead._

If only that were true. Will Dixon may be dead and gone, laid in the ground and moldering away, but he still holds a powerful sway over the lives of his sons. Merle can’t stand anything but the euphoria of losing himself in his drugs, and Daryl can’t stand himself in his own skin most days, much less having someone else show interest in him that is unfounded even if it is desperately longed for.

He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act. He’s never been kissed, has never been touched in a way that wasn’t meant to cause pain, and Rick is so unbearably kind to him that it _hurts_.

Daryl _wants_ , god does he fucking want, but he’s also smart enough to look for the catch, to wait with bated breath for the other shoe to drop—or come slamming down on his head—and he knows better than to let himself get so comfortable. It’s hard to remember that when the credits roll and Rick looks over at him with a wide, radiant smile and sparkling eyes.

“What did you think?”

Slouching further in the chair, he bites at his lip and rips a few layers of skin from the abused flesh, licking up the blood that wells from the wound and drawing comfort from the sting in a way that sympathetic touches never managed to inspire. “Liked it,” he mumbles, slanting his eyes away from Rick’s hopeful face to look at the blank, white-washed walls. The apartment is bare for the most part, like it hasn’t been lived in long enough to be made into a home even though the entertainment center is packed full of all kinds of movies. When he looks toward it and tilts his head, he’s almost certain he can see some Disney movies in there, and it makes something twist painfully in his chest.

“Liked it just because of Graverobber?” Rick teases, and the fact that there’s nothing malicious about the friendly banter is probably the only reason Daryl doesn’t react with anything other than a sputtering snort. Jax jumps down and lets him get up, and his face is probably red all over again. He can’t quite look at Rick, hunching his shoulders and jamming his hands deep into his pockets.

“Fuck off, asshole.”

That gets a warm, happy laugh, and he can’t help his small smile. Rick is so light and happy, even despite the darkness that teases at the edges of Daryl’s awareness. The man before him is as unassuming and lethal as his loin soul, pretty and gentle until something stirs him into a frenzy and his lips pull back from his teeth.

Daryl shivers and looks out the window, trying to gauge the time by the position of the sun. He should probably get back home—not that there’s anyone who will be there waiting for him. It’s a saddening though, but he’s feeling pretty fucking sad right now because he can’t get over his stupid hang-ups and just enjoy being in Rick’s company without overthinking everything and being paranoid about every little look or word.

“Gotta get home,” he mutters, and Rick nods understandingly even as something like disappointment darkens his eyes for a moment. It’s there and gone so fast that Daryl’s not entirely sure he didn’t just imagine it, so he doesn’t say anything about it. He just shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, wondering if they’re supposed to shake hands or give each other masculine hugs or something else of the sort. He’s not familiar with how things work between friends, because he’s never really had any. In the end, he settles for an awkward wave and a quiet, “See ya, man,” and heads for the door.

“Daryl, wait.”

Rick crowds him back against the sturdy wood when he turns to see what the man wants. There’s hardly any space between them, and he never realized how _warm_ Rick is. Heat radiates from him in a way that kind of reminds Daryl of Merle’s fire, only this isn’t a low smolder. This is more like crackling electricity, and he feels the hairs on his arms raise as his eyes get wide and he swallows thickly and tries to wet his parched throat.

“Rick, what-”

Lips press against his, a gentle palm cupping his jaw and coaxing his head to the angle that apparently works best. Daryl goes very, very still, his breath frozen in his lungs and his hands limp by his sides. Jax whines from the living room, his claws ticking over tile as he slinks through the kitchen, and Nathan follows. They sit and watch, and Daryl tries to focus on them, tries to focus on everything from the scrape of Rick’s stubble against his own to the firm, dry pressure of the man’s lips against his. They move slowly, kneading at his mouth in a way that makes him _whimper_ , and when a wet, hot tongue curls against the seam of his lips, trying to coax them apart, everything crashes over him at once with the force of a tidal wave and he lashes out before he can stop himself.

Rick’s weight is suddenly gone, the man’s eyes dark and surprised as he lifts a hand to stem the flow of blood from his nose. He looks _horrified_ , and maybe a little bit disgusted, and seeing those warring expressions makes Daryl’s stomach lurch like he’s about to throw up. He covers his mouth, trying to ignore the way it tingles and feels so sensitive, and shudders out a quiet sound.

“Daryl, shit, I’m so sorry.”

Shaking his head mutely, the archer bites hard at his thumb until blood drips down his chin. Jax barks, Rick’s lion rumbles, and the doorknob is cold and unforgiving when he grips it tightly enough to hurt and throws the door open. He runs, and Rick calls out to him again, louder and frantic, but he doesn’t stop running. Jax bolts after him, whimpering, and Daryl doesn’t realize that he’s shaking until he’s left the buildings far behind for the safety of his forest.

Dropping to his knees, he rubs at his still-tingling mouth and ignores the way his eyes are burning, his magic boiling beneath the surface and trying to break free. He chokes on his next breath, the gasp low and desperate when he falls back against the supporting trunk of a poplar tree and scrabbles to unbutton and unzip his pants.

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, his cock hard and already leaking like the traitor it is. He spits into his palm twice and slicks the saliva down the length of himself; slams his head back and barks out a noise of pleasure and pain as he works himself quickly. His bare ass grinds down against the dirt and sticks and leaf litter dig into his flesh uncomfortably as he bucks up into the tunnel of his fingers and then rocks away from the stimulation. He pants and moans and _hates himself_ , because he can still see the desire on Rick’s face through the man’s confusion as he’d covered his bleeding nose—can still feel the phantom press of his lips and the wicked swipe of his tongue.

 _“Fuck!”_ He comes loudly, cussing as his dick throbs and hot cum streaks across his shirt. His cries are swallowed up by the trees, his secret safe amongst their comforting embrace, and there’s no one around to watch the way he gathers up his milky release and sucks it from his own fingers, his other hand still wrapped tightly around his cock as he strokes out the last few dribbles and doesn’t soften even a little. Hot, humiliated tears leak from his eyes, because he’s out in the middle of a forest jacking off to the image of a man who is too fucking perfect to ever pay Daryl any kind of mind—who just _kissed_ him—who must just be desperate in his small corner of the world with no one else around who shares in his feelings for members of the same sex. Daryl is nothing but an easy, convenient body. He’s _nothing_ , and Rick has to know that, probably does now that Daryl just _punched him in the face and ran away_.

Clapping a hand against his mouth to stifle any other sounds, he slides a finger over his tongue and sucks on it as heat coils low in his belly and pleasure sparks through every nerve ending, making his back arch sharply and his legs spread wide as his cum-wet fingers slip past his balls to press against his tight, aching hole.

 _God damn you,_ he thinks, closing his eyes like that will be enough to hide his shame even though there’s no one around to watch himself finger his own ass on the hard ground while his cock bobs and leaks. He thinks of Rick again, pictures his face twisted into an expression of intense pleasure, and Daryl knows that he’s so fucking screwed just as much as he recognizes that there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it.


	3. Chapter 3

By Friday, Daryl can’t stand the abandoned atmosphere of his empty house, and he’s burning with regret over what he’s done. Rick was probably just caught up in some kind of moment, and he shouldn’t have punched the man the way he did. He _should_ feel flattered that Rick would want to kiss him, even if he was the only available option, because he could have easily just sent the teenager on his way and gone to satisfy his needs with porn or whatever else he could find.

Three days of soaking load after load of cum into his sheets, of shoving his fingers inside himself until his ass is tender and sore and he’s amazed his cock isn’t chafed, and Daryl has had enough of his own bullshit. The least he can do is go back to Rick’s apartment and apologize to him, try and mend a little bit of the tension before he’s repaid for his outburst in kind and they never see each other again. It’s a depressing thing to think about, but Daryl doesn’t deserve anything else after how badly he’s already fucked things up, so he resigns himself to one last bad conversation and heads toward the town with his crossbow resting comfortably against his back and Jax trotting faithfully at his side.

The forest is unusually quiet today, and more than one critter stops what they’re doing to watch their passage. Daryl has never seen so many rabbits, and at least four of them start following behind him while squirrels leap from branch to branch overhead. He has his own goddamn following, and when a yearling buck wanders over from the direction of the stream and _shoves his muzzle under Daryl’s chin_ , he has to stop and stare because _what the fuck_.

“The hell is going on with all y’all t’day?” he barks. The worst that happens is the rabbits skitter away a little and the buck’s ears twitch as he pulls back enough to stick his dark, wet nose against the archer’s cheek and blow out a hot puff of air.

Jax is beside himself with glee, prancing in place and licking at a doe rabbit and her litter of kits. They accept the collie’s enthusiastic affection, and Daryl would be seriously concerned about the state of these animals’ self-preservation instincts, but then his magic surges through him and leafy, shimmering vines crawl across his chest and biceps in thick ropes. It startles him at first, because he’s had it locked down behind the branch barrier for days—has spent a lot of time hiding himself from everything because he remembered Rick saying he followed Daryl’s trail because so much of his magic melded into nature. This morning, he hadn’t reinforced the walls, had let them crumble and disintegrate like branches blackened by fire, and now his magic dances out of him and spills into the air, so much of it that he wonders how he hasn’t gone insane with it building inside of him. Buttercups and dandelions pop up through the carpet of dead, molding leaves; grass grows in thick and tall and the branches around him bend beneath the weight of the leaves. He watches the buck begin to graze, his tail flicking, and wonders if this is what they were all waiting for.

They were waiting for him to come back.

After Daryl lets his excess magic bleed away, watches the way it drips like raindrops from his fingers and twines down his legs like thick roots to slither into the ground, he feels lighter and more settled than he has in days. So much so that when he and Jax continue on their way, leaving the animals behind to return to their lives, he’s got a genuinely happy smile on his face and a spring to his step that Jax mirrors. They pass through the rest of the forest, leaving a path of growth in their wake that swells as he walks by and fades away once he’s gone, and by the time they reach the town Daryl isn’t sure that anything can ruin his mood.

Then he remembers _why_ he’s here, and oh. Yeah, that does it. He bites his lip nervously, trying to wind his way through the busy streets and ignoring the looks he gets when people see his crossbow. They mutter behind the safety of their hands, and some of them deliberately make comments loudly enough for him to hear, but he doesn’t care about anything any of them have to say. He’s on a mission, damn it. He needs to find Rick.

When he makes it to the apartment building that Rick lives in, he is both proud of himself for not completely failing at his sense of direction, and ultimately disappointed. He can already tell without even needing to go upstairs and find the right door that Rick isn’t here. The man has a very distinct presence because of his magic, the air around him always seeming to buzz with a low-key current of electricity. It’s something that can only really be noticed when you know enough to pay attention for it, and it’s not present at the moment.

Unsure of what to do now, Daryl turns away from the building slowly and looks down at the clean, unbroken sidewalk beneath his grungy boots. He’s not sure what to do now, not sure where to go. Just giving up and going home will feel too much like a failure to him, so he begins to wander toward the town’s biggest natural park. It’s not nature like he’s used to, but it’s still natural and lacks the manufactured, man-made feel the deeper into it you go. He hasn’t come here often, because being surrounded by these buildings and the press of the other people sets his teeth on edge.

Jax whines and lopes ahead, weaving in and out of the people like it’s a personal game of his. Sometimes, when the collie stops, someone will walk right through him and Daryl will feel a shiver deep in his soul, a muted sense of _wrongness_ that is easily overlooked if you’re not thinking about it. What interests him more are the people who actually step around Jax unconsciously, so focused on whatever else they’re doing that they probably don’t even notice they’ve done it. The teenager watches them and Sees the flicker of their magics, how it’s a little bit stronger even if it’s still dampened and unable to reach the freedom it so desperately seeks.

The wind pulls Daryl along, guiding him impatiently and teasing his nose with the scent of clover and wildflowers the closer he gets to the park. He can hear the trees singing, can _feel_ their eagerness before he even sees them, and he makes it a point to touch every single trunk once he finally steps into the park; wandering with his hand stretched out so his fingers drag over rough and smooth barks, tiny wisps of magic flitting from his fingertips and melting into the poplars and black walnut trees like it’s just coming home.

He's given energy and life in return, silver and silver-green mingling into something that fills him and makes him wish he wasn’t wearing his boots so that his toes could sink into the lush grass and dig into the cool dirt—so that he could be one with the earth the way he’s always wanted to be no matter where he was.

Laughter reaches him, and his thumb gravitates to his mouth, his teeth coming down firmly on the nail. He chews and tries to calm the frantic fluttering in his chest, following the distant sound deeper into the park before he comes across a wide open clearing covered in dandelions and bluebells. Shane is sitting cross-legged, his head back and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he laughs at something. His shepherd is running laps around the perimeter of the clearing, and it stops as soon as Daryl and Jax come into view and stares at them, its body tense and its ears quivering.

Nathan rumbles, and Daryl twitches, because he almost hadn’t seen the big lion stretched out in the thicker grasses. He hears a quiet sound and looks back at Shane in time to see Rick sit up quickly, his head already turned Daryl’s way and his blue eyes so wide that the whites are visible all around. Electricity gathers at his temples and dances down his throat in little arcs of lightning, and Daryl’s heart thumps painfully in his chest at such an uncontrolled display of emotion.

“ _Daryl,_ ” Rick whispers, moving quickly like he’s about to get to his feet. He looks pale and drawn, like he hasn’t slept well and maybe hasn’t been feeling the greatest. He’s sweating through his _King’s County Academy_ t-shirt, the material sticking to his chest and his toned arms. Daryl hadn’t even realized how hot it is, but now that he’s paying attention to something that isn’t _find Rick and apologize_ , he realizes that he’s sweated through his own sleeveless shirt and his legs are uncomfortably warm beneath the rough denim of his jeans.

“Hey, Rick,” he mutters awkwardly, ducking his head so his bangs fall over his eyes like a weak shield. “How’re you?”

“He’s fucking shitty,” Shane snaps before Rick can answer, and Daryl feels his hackles rise when Jax’s do. His collie is growling at Shane’s shepherd, the two of them facing off against one another. Jax is a lot smaller, a lot leaner, whereas Shane’s soul animal is taller and much bulkier—thicker from muscle with a bigger muzzle and sharper teeth. His Jax is fearless, though, and the ruff of thicker fur around his throat will protect him from any possible bites if they do get into it.

God, he hopes they don’t. Jax has never fought with another spirit, not viciously, and Daryl is too afraid of what will happen if blood spills between them. His magic is already writhing beneath his skin, spilling from his palms and unfurling like ferns across his knuckles.

“Daryl, breathe,” Rick whispers, coming closer and ignoring the angry sound Shane makes in the back of his throat. His friend gets up too, looming behind Rick and watching Daryl with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“Am breathin’,” Daryl bites out reflexively, and then he stops and takes a deep, calming breath to try and keep his temper in check. He eyes Shane and bites his thumb until he feels the skin give beneath the strength of his agitation. “Can I talk ta you?”

“You are talkin’ to him. Get gone, asshole.” The way Shane bares his teeth is reminiscent of his soul animal, but Daryl is not intimidated. He’s seen a lot scarier things, and he stands his ground as he readies himself for a possible fight.

“Shane, stop it.” Rick gives his friend a look that Daryl cannot interpret, and Shane visibly bristles in response before huffing and stalking away. His shepherd follows after a moment, snapping its teeth at Jax before slinking after the man. Nathan approaches and greets Daryl’s collie with a gentle lick between the ears that makes the archer shiver slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, ducking his head again and looking at the angry bruise splashed across Rick’s nose and part of his left cheek, the dark stain ringing the bottom of his eye and the skin across the bridge of his nose split and still angry-looking. Daryl got him good, and it makes him feel like absolute shit, because Rick is looking at him right now like he never thought he’d see Daryl again.

“Why are you sorry?” the man murmurs, stepping closer and reaching up with exaggerated slowness. Daryl goes tense but doesn’t move, watching the hands approach until one of them settles on his shoulder and the other cups the side of his neck. “Jesus, Daryl, I’m so sorry for scaring you like that. I shouldn’t have pushed. I didn’t even _ask_ first.”

“The fuck you sorry for?” Shaking his head, he leans into the reassuring touches and tries not to close his eyes. “Jesus, man, I _punched you in the face._ Ya should be tryin’ ta get yer own blows in right now, not fuckin’ sayin’ sorry.”

“You had every right to react like that. Remind me never to get on your bad side.” Rick chuckles and the air feels lighter, the sun warming Daryl’s skin even more than it had before. Or maybe that’s the flush that’s lighting up his cheeks and trailing down his throat in red tendrils of embarrassment and _something else_. It feels like nothing’s changed, and yet there’s a fundamental difference now. The air around Rick crackles and shivers, the temperature rising and the winds picking up in response. That might be Daryl, though, because he’s shivering with anticipation and hope as he looks at Rick. There’s barely two inches of difference between them height-wise, although Rick is lean and Daryl’s shoulders are broader. He’d never noticed it before now, and he's a little distracted by the strong lines of the man’s throat and arms until Rick’s voice breaks him out of his daze.

“So, now that all of that’s out of the way, how are you feeling?”

Daryl tilts his head and looks at Rick from beneath his lashes. He’s not trying to be seductive—he wouldn’t know how to be sensual even if he was hit with the Kama Sutra—but it seems like it has an effect on Rick all the same. His eyes flash and a noise that reminds Daryl of thunder rumbles from deep in his chest. It makes the archer shiver, the wind teasing across his exposed nape and shivering down his spine.

“Like shit,” he replies honestly, putting space between them because as much as he wants to push against Rick right now, he doesn’t think he’s deserving of it. That, and Shane is still watching them like a hawk, ready to swoop in at the first sign of trouble. “S’been a rough couple’a days. Ya look like ya ain’t slept, man.”

“I haven’t, really.” Rick runs a hand through his hair. He’s cut it really short, to the point that there’s hardly any hint of his curls anymore. Daryl misses them, misses how the wind moved through them and the way they tumbled down the back of the man’s neck. “Partly because training at the Academy has been kicked up a few notches, and partly because I was so afraid I wouldn’t see you again that I couldn’t bring myself to really rest.” The man looks sheepish, his shoulders rolling, and Daryl frowns. “I kept trying to figure out how to fix things.”

“Shit, ain’t worth that much trouble.” Shaking his head in bafflement, Daryl finds the courage to reach out and rest his fingertips against Rick’s chest, tilting his head to get a better look at the older man. “Prolly better off without me ‘round, anyway. All I do is ruin things.” Reaching up, he lets his fingers hover over the damage he has inflicted, ripping skin from his lip until he bleeds a little more and feeling like it’s not enough of a punishment for what he’s done.

“Don’t say that about yourself, Daryl.” Rick grabs for his hand and intertwines their fingers, rubbing his thumb against the sensitive skin of the archer’s wrist. “You haven’t ruined anything, I swear. If you don’t trust what I say, at least trust them.” He nods to the side and Daryl looks over—can’t help his stupefied snort when he sees Nathan wrapped around Jax, pinning the collie beneath one huge paw and grooming him. He’s purring softly, and Jax looks like he’s in a state of pure bliss, his legs splayed out and his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as he pants happily and lets himself be cleaned. Now that he’s not completely lost in Rick, Daryl can feel the faint echoes every time the lion’s wide, rough tongue drags over his collie’s fur.

“Fuckin’ shit,” he hisses, feeling hypersensitive and like he needs to run to bleed out the warmth that’s coiling through his muscles and making him feel relaxed and pliant. Rick rumbles like he _knows_ , his eyes dark and glittering with things that frighten Daryl to name because he’s so unused to seeing them aimed his way. He’s not used to _any_ of this, but he wants all of it with an intensity that is borderline terrifying.

“Y’all done makin’ up over there?”

Shane’s voice cuts through everything easily, shattering the intimacy with harsh reality. Jerking back, Daryl shakes his head like that will scatter his inappropriate thoughts; huffs when Rick makes a frustrated sound and turns to level his friend with an unimpressed look.

“Yes, Shane, we’re done. Are you going to stop being an ass now?”

“Ain’t likely,” Shane snorts as he saunters back over to them. His shepherd lopes at his side, its dark eyes fixed on Daryl like it’s waiting for him to fuck up so that it can lunge. He’s not entirely sure that won’t happen, because he’s got a long list of fuck-ups throughout his short life that are blatantly, glaringly obvious. He’s ruined things once with Rick already, and he’s desperate to keep that from happening again.

Actually, he’s just desperate, and he can feel a little bit of lube leaking out between his thighs that he hadn’t taken the time to properly clean away before running out of the house. He wants to squirm, wants to roll over and present himself like a bitch in heat and raise his hips for Rick, and _that_ is a path he never imagined his thoughts would travel down, so he shakes his head roughly again and bites at his sore, injured lip and takes far too long to realize that Rick and Shane are done bickering and are staring at him.

“What?” he asks defensively, gripping the strap of his crossbow tightly and hunching his shoulders like that will help the weight of their combined stares roll off of him easier.

“I’m gonna say this once.” Shane steps forward, his broad shoulders looking even bigger when he curls his fists loosely and cocks his head to the side to catch Daryl’s averted gaze. He’s pinned in place by those dark eyes, reading the threat clearly and knowing that a man like Shane has the power to follow through with it. “You pull that shit again, and you’re dead. Rick might be a nice guy, but I’m not so forgiving.”

“Shane, I don’t need you to defend my honor,” Rick sighs, and Daryl watches him roll his eyes exasperatedly. “I’m not some damsel you can demand a dowry for.”

“You shut up, brother, and let me threaten this kid. You deserve someone who will treat you right, damn it. Not punch you in the face and leave for three days.”

Daryl winces. It’s not like he can forget what he’s done, especially with the evidence of it right in front of him; the bruises dark on Rick’s tan face and the slight bump of swelling that hasn’t gone down yet like a punch to the gut that makes him want to double over and grovel at the man’s feet like he’s a sinner in church begging to have the absolution he so desires even though he has done nothing to be worthy of forgiveness. Rick has already forgiven him though, his benevolence seemingly fathomless and his touches only ever looking to mend rather than destroy. He could rip Daryl’s world apart, could bury him beneath the force of his carefully-tempered ruthlessness if he so desired, but the archer has felt none of the backlash from the darkness he can sense in Rick. It’s there, coiled just below the surface, but it is tamed and as gentle as violence can try to be—claws sheathed and fangs covered until he will have occasion to need them.

“Enough, man, seriously.” Rick pushes Shane back and steps in front of him, catching Daryl’s eyes when they try to stay away and keeping them trained on him. Daryl doesn’t honestly know if he could look away from Rick, everything in him straining to be closer while his magic dances through him and wildflowers bloom around his feet. It’s the biggest tell he’s ever had, the least in-control he’s ever felt since the day Merle decided he didn’t need tutoring anymore, at least not from someone who couldn’t understand how to bring life instead of burn it away. Rick sees it and smiles, his silver-blue magic swirling across his shoulders like gathering clouds before dissipating away.

“You hungry, Daryl?”

Blinking owlishly, he lets his eyes drop to Rick’s lips for a brief moment—licks his own unconsciously before quickly looking away and shivering when Nathan’s teeth gently close around the nape of Jax’s neck and his collie goes boneless. Daryl sort of wants to do the same, his knees trembling until he locks them to keep his legs from buckling and dropping him. Shane is eyeing him, the faint flickers of his magic flaring a little brighter. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it thing, but it’s still something for Daryl to focus on until he can straighten his spine and roll his shoulders back.

“Was plannin’ on huntin’, after I found ya,” he admits. “Got nothin’ in the house, really. Could do with a bit’a stockin’ up.”

“What do you mean, there’s nothin’ in the house?”

Surprisingly enough, that comes from Shane. He’s frowning heavily, his hands resting on his belt as he cracks his neck. The tension has eased in him, giving way to concern that leaves Daryl feeling a bit bemused. What kind of man is Shane, that he could go from threatening someone to being concerned about their well-being in less than ten minutes? Is he really an asshole, or is that just a cover he uses to hide his true nature? Either way, Daryl’s not planning on trying to puzzle it out right now. He has more pressing matters to deal with.

“Mean what I said,” the teenager grumbles, glancing at Rick from beneath his bangs and watching the series of emotions that flow over his face before settling on something that might be determination.

“Let’s get going, then,” he says easily. Daryl frowns, uncertain as to what he means. “You need to hunt, and I’ve missed you,” the man clarifies. It absolutely _does not_ make Daryl’s stomach flutter. It _doesn’t_. “So we can catch up on the way there, and I’ll sit somewhere and be quiet while you hunt. And Shane here will _go away_ and mind his own business, and I’ll text him _later_.” This part is said forcefully and with a pointed stare at Shane, whose eyebrows go up before he lifts his hands in a placating gesture.

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’. You don’t text me by six and I’m huntin’ your ass down, though.” His eyes flick to Daryl, who meets his gaze evenly. He’s got no desire to hurt Rick, not like that or in any other way if he can help it—which doesn’t mean much, because he knows how he is. He’s going to fuck up again, and Rick will get tired of letting him stutter through apologies to try and fix things, and eventually the pretty shine of whatever new thing this is will turn dull. The excitement will wear off, and Rick will leave, and Daryl has to be okay with that because he doesn’t have another choice.

Shane leaves, his shepherd padding at his heels after one last look toward Jax and Nathan, and once they’re out of sight Rick moves suddenly and Daryl braces himself.

“I’m going to hug you now,” the man breathes, and that’s all the warning the archer gets before strong arms wrap around him and he’s pulled against a firm chest. The scent of sweat and musk tickles his nose and relaxes his muscles, and he tucks his face into the crook of Rick’s neck with a quiet sigh as he lets himself be hugged. His fingers twitch, and he wants to hug Rick back, he _does_ , but he’s awkward and socially inept at the best of times, and he’s not used to this kind of contact but he’s so desperate for it, so he leans into Rick’s warmth and feels the way the skin beneath his cheek vibrates like there’s a live current running just beneath the surface. It’s surprisingly comforting to be so close to something that can be so deadly and _know_ that he’s safe, to know that Rick will not turn his lighting against Daryl just as Rick knows that Daryl will never turn his vines against the man.

“Come on, then.” Rick finally pulls away, and Daryl almost _whines_ because he doesn’t want him to go. Something must show too much on his face, because Rick rumbles quietly in response and cups the nape of his neck; presses a kiss to his forehead and makes soothing sounds until Daryl backs away on his own and rubs his wrist roughly over his nose and mouth, looking away and trying to hide his embarrassment. He’s never been like this before, never been so eager to fall into another person the way he wants to fall into Rick, and he’s reached the point where he knows what this is, now, knows what _he_ is, but that doesn’t mean he has to admit it to himself yet. He’s happy to live in denial and pine, just so long as he doesn’t roll over for Rick and become the bitch Merle had always warned him never to be—like his brother knew before he did, and so he made it into the worst thing possible, because if their daddy had ever found out…

He shudders at the thought of what could have happened, had Will Dixon ever learned one of his worthless sons was a pillow-biter. “Yeah,” he says quietly, roughly, and Jax’s warm, wet nose presses into his palm. Daryl smiles and pets the collie’s slender muzzle, looking into his doe-soft eyes and feeling himself settle into something far enough from memories to be comfortable. When Rick touches his right shoulder blade just beneath the crossbow, his fingers gentle and his palm warm, a small thrum runs through the archer. It feels like a current of electricity, but a nice one, and he swallows thickly before moving away and tries not to focus on how cold the spot Rick had touched feels after the contact is gone.

“Yeah,” he says again, not quite sure what else to do as he starts walking back toward the entrance through the park, trailing his fingers across the trunks of the trees again and saying his goodbyes until he can come back. Rick follows after him, letting Daryl lead the way even though they both know he knows the path well. For now, he is content to follow, and although the archer isn’t quite comfortable with someone like Rick following after him when the man is such an obvious leader, he warms at the show of trust, at the knowledge of Rick’s faith, even if it is for something so small.

Someone has faith in Daryl. Someone has faith in _him_.

He doesn’t want to screw that up.

 

\--

 

Someone was bound to come out eventually. Daryl is barely old enough to be considered a legal adult, and he has no job. Even if his house is in the middle of the woods, it’s still part of King’s County, and he still has electricity and taxes that need to be paid. There are still zoning laws and property taxes, still issues with the foundation and the structure of what Will Dixon has built without a proper permit or permission from anyone, purely because he was a mean son of a bitch and he loved sticking it to The Man.

It means something that the township has decided to wait until _now_ , when Merle was behind bars for a solid amount of time and Daryl is left by himself. He’s too old for them to call in CPS, a legal adult in the eyes of the law even if it doesn’t amount to much in the end. They’re still going to demolish the house, the man sent by King’s County explains to him. He’s standing in Daryl’s kitchen, dressed in a cheap suit that’s been ironed within an inch of his life and projecting an air of false sympathy even though he doesn’t give a fuck that he’s telling Daryl they’re taking his only home away from him.

“You can fight the decision if you want,” he offers, and his smug tone is making it really hard for the teenager to restrain himself. Jax is sitting at his feet and growling, his lips pulled back from his sharp little teeth, which he’s bared at the ocelot twining around the man’s ankles. She hisses back, her rounded ears flattening, and Daryl just wants these two to get out of his house _right fucking now_ so he can figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do. “I don’t think it would work, though. You have no income, Mr. Dixon, and as I have said, there were no permits for when this house was built. My hands are tied. I’m sorry.”

“You ain’t fuckin’ sorry,” he spits, and he knows he should be trying to keep himself calm right now, but he can’t. There are thick vines wrapped around his biceps and chest, little leaves composed entirely of his magic tickling against his skin and his throat when he crosses his arms and tries to take deep breaths. _Control it_ , he thinks. _Build the wall back up._

It’s easier to think than to actually put into practice right now, when he’s so angry that he wants nothing more than to shoot this township official in the ass and watch him limp away to lick his wounds. He knows that not a single one of them are sorry, that none of them give a shit that they’re about to make him homeless, because he’s just a Dixon, and the Dixon name has been worth less than mud ever since the first ones settled in the outskirts of King’s County and chose to live off the land rather than conform to the rest of society.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

The man goes, offering one last insincere apology before he gets in his car and drives away; his tires kicking up clouds of dirt that settle on the sleek body of his vehicle and leave behind a visible reminder of where he’s just been. Daryl gets a savage sort of glee when he sees it, even though a quick wash will wipe away all traces.

“C’mon, Jax,” he mutters, turning away from the unpaved path that serves as his treacherous driveway and loping toward the lush, welcoming forest. The trees sing to him, a harmonious melody that is meant to soothe his agitation until he’s relaxed and sprawled across his favorite sunning rock, his shirt gone and his crossbow propped against the side of the boulder. He doesn’t try to meditate, knows it wouldn’t work right now even if he wanted to. Instead he just soaks the sunlight into his tense flesh until he feels boneless and he’s practically purring.

The house is a piece of shit anyway. The roof leaks in bad weather, there’s a lot of damage because of his father, and it holds no good memories for him. There is _nothing for him there_ , but it’s the only house he’s ever lived in, and being told that he has no choice, that he has to leave, makes his hackles rise and makes him want to do violent, painful things to the smarmy bastards who would _dare_ tell him what to do. They hold no power over him, they’re not his daddy or anyone he deems even mildly important, so why should their word be law over his life? It’s ridiculous, but what’s even more ridiculous to him is that he’s getting so pissed off about a house that he cannot even stand to be in most of the time anyway.

He’s still brooding when Rick finds him. He’d sensed the man a few minutes ago but hasn’t bothered to move, because he knows that Rick will always be able to find him unless Daryl truly doesn’t want to be found. Right now, he’s grateful for the company, so he cracks open one bleary eye and watches the older man hurry closer, his steps quick and efficient like he’s rushed the whole time to find Daryl, and only now can he relax. And he does, the tension smoothing from the tight lines of his body and a smile replacing the worried frown that had carved deep gouges into his face. “Daryl,” he breathes, a tendril of slivery-blue leaking from the corner of his mouth—like he’s having a hard time controlling himself and the strain is showing.

“S’wrong?” Daryl heaves himself into a sitting position, reaching back and rubbing at his tender, reddened shoulders. It’s still blisteringly hot out, the sun beating down unforgivingly to the point that not even hiding in the shade of the trees will do any good, because there’s barely a breeze to ease the humidity that has fallen over their slice of Georgia like a heavy blanket. He’s got the beginnings of a sunburn, but it’s nothing that won’t be gone in a day or two, leaving behind skin that is a little darker except for where the flesh is broken by his scars.

“I thought you were in trouble.” Rick sounds faintly accusatory, but not in a way that raises his hackles and makes him want to lash out. This is more bald-faced concern, like he’d sensed something Daryl wasn’t even aware he’d been putting out and has come as fast as his feet could bring him, only to find the target of his worry half-dozing in the sun.

“Wasn’t,” he mutters, folding his legs beneath him and adopting his meditative pose, his hands relaxed against his knees and his head tilted as he eyes Rick. “Just dealin’ with an asshole from th’ township.”

“Township?” Tilting his head as well, Rick hops up onto the rock beside him and smiles when the teenager shifts over to make room. There’s enough room for both of them, with a few inches of space, but Rick doesn’t seem to want space right now. He crowds right up against Daryl’s side, almost warmer than the heated stone, and Daryl remains relaxed and loose-limbed, his eyes heavy and his mood lifted significantly now that someone with no intention of causing him distress is around. “What did they want?”

“Ta tell me I ain’t legally ‘llowed ta live here no more.” Rubbing his fingers over the time-worn boulder, he feels the smoothness of it, rubbing his thumb into a shallow groove and pulling his lower lip between his teeth to knead at it unconsciously. “Said m’daddy ain’t had no permits ta build out here, they jus’ never got ‘round ta doin’ nothin’ ‘bout it ‘til now. So’s I gotta leave, ‘cause I ain’t legally permitted or some shit like that. S’an illegal dwellin’re some shit. Tryin’a figure out ‘f it’s a good thing’re not, since I can’t fuckin’ stand bein’ there anyway.”

“And they’re just telling you this now?” Rick growls. He lifts his hand in front of himself, his palm facing up, and Daryl watches the way he gathers his magic into a miniature cloud of crackling light. It spins slowly an inch above his hand, and as they watch it together, it morphs from shape to shape the same way it did the first time Daryl ever saw it.

“How d’ya do that?” he asks, trying to get the subject off of himself and his housing issues. It’s not a big deal, it really isn’t. Now that he’s calmer, he knows he can just pitch a tent out in the woods until he can find some source of income that will enable him to find other arrangements. He’s spent his whole life surviving in the forest, at home amongst the shaded trunks and the lively plants that have always welcomed him in a way society never could. To actually sleep out beneath the stars, to curl up in the ferns and have the sweet smell of wildflowers tickle his nose—it’s a very appealing prospect. “Ain’t never showed me.”

“I can right now, if you want. It’s always good to practice, because the more you work at it the longer you can do it for, and the easier it becomes.” Rick turns to face him, mirroring the way he’s sitting without disrupting the dance of his magic as it shifts from a lightning bolt to a thundercloud to a sphere that reminds Daryl of the earth, all swirling patterns of blue and silver that twine together to form miniature continents and oceans.

“What do I gotta do?”

“Palm out, first. Pick a spot in the center, where the lines on your hand meet. Use it as your focal point.” Rick’s voice becomes a low rumble, the words wrapping around Daryl and lulling him into something approaching a trance-like state. He nods and looks down at his palm, finding a tiny patch where three of his palm-lines meet up. He can hear Jax and Nathan playing a little way away, but it’s not something his mind can focus on for long. Instead, he drifts along on the current of Rick’s calming presence and takes in a deep, slow breath through his nose; letting it out through his mouth the way he learned to do when meditating.

“Don’t sink too far in, you need to remain aware of what you’re doing, or else it’ll get away from you. Got your circle up?”

“Mhm,” he mutters, even though no, he _doesn’t_ , because he’d never learned about a protective circle until he’d gotten on line and researched about magic and meditation himself. He imagines one the way he always has, thinking it up literally on the spot, and Rick’s quiet chuff of laughter tells him that the man knew he was lying. He doesn’t say anything about it, just waits for Daryl to nod again, and continues.

“Feel your energy, I know you can. That part isn’t hard for you. What’s going to be hard is channeling it now. Send it to that spot on your palm—not a lot, Daryl, this isn’t a competition. Slow and small works just fine for now, until you’ve got a better grasp on it. You know what color your magic is—make sure what you send matches it. Don’t send your own life force—once you expend that, you can never get it back.”

Biting at his lip, Daryl focuses inward and reaches into the simmering forest of magic rooted deeply within himself, coaxing it and trying to get it to follow the lines of his body until he can manifest it in his palm. His magic fights him, wild and free and wanting to stay that way. Rick must see his growing frustration, because his voice smoothly slips into Daryl’s ears like a cool, steady river.

“Don’t force it, Daryl, or it will never work. Your magic is a wild, natural thing. It is not used to being tamed—it’s not supposed to be. If it were, you wouldn’t be who you are. You would be nothing more than a pretty garden, hedged and trimmed and boring. Natural magic is a powerful thing to wield, and a hard thing to control. How are you seeing it?”

“Forest,” he mumbles. “Trees’n shrubs’n plants.”

“How do you see yourself?”

“As I am. A person.”

“You see blood and bone and muscle.”

“Mhm.”

“What about seeing yourself as something different? What if you were a tree, or a plant? Your veins become vines, something similar to what your magic is? Maybe even roots, if that’s what you need to do. Once you get the hang of it, you don’t have to pretend anymore. Just take your time, it’s not a race. It’ll happen, Daryl, you just need to be patient.”

“M’not really a patient person, in case ya ain’t noticed.” Snorting in amusement, Daryl takes another deep breath and exhales flickers of green that make his lips tingle and his tongue feel warm. Looking at his palm, he tries to follow Rick’s advice—he sees himself as an oak, his veins the roots he’s burrowed firmly into the ground, and his magic leaps in response; rushes along the gnarled knots of muscle made into bark and sparks happily from fingertips turned into crooked branches. A flicker of something in the center of his palm expands and grows until there’s a tiny fern cupped securely in his hand, the unfurled fronds swaying gently in a sudden wispy breeze. It only stays that way for a second before collapsing in on itself and becoming a bright, smooth silver-green river stone.

“Good, Daryl, that’s perfect. Hold it for a little longer, and then when you’re ready, close your fingers over your palm. Cancel your magic out safely, so it can reabsorb instead of being taken away.”

Staring at the inch-long stone comprised entirely of his own magic with something approaching wonder, Daryl turns his hand this way and that to see it from all angles before following Rick’s advice and clenching his hand into a fist. Hi palm is warmer than it should be, like he was holding something alive that had its own pulse and heat source. His fingers tingle, so he shakes them out; shakes his head and looks up at Rick, who looks so radiant and joyous that Daryl ducks his head in response and tries to hide his blush.

“God, Daryl, the things you do will never cease to amaze me. How do you feel?”

“M’fine,” he grunts, and for the most part he really is. Flexing his fingers, he looks at them like he’s never seen them before, like they belong to someone else instead of him. It’s a good feeling, to have done something more controlled than just letting his magic flow freely to soothe hurts. This was something deliberate, something he had to focus on, and there’s a bit of a fuzzy buzzing in his mind, almost like he’s been working a part of himself that he’s not used to using. “Can we do it again?”

“A few more times, if you think you’ll be okay,” Rick agrees. “If it starts to hurt, then stop. Sometimes a slow build-up is better than an all-out sprint to the finish line.”

Nodding, he looks down at his hand, takes a deep breath, and focuses on drawing more of his magic to his palm. The rock forms a lot quicker this time, and he manages to hold it in place for longer before it starts to ripple and Rick has him stop. They’re both grinning, and Daryl can’t remember the last time he felt this accomplished about something—maybe the first time he ever killed an animal with his crossbow to fill his hungry belly.

“Again?” Rick asks, and he thinks about it—rubs at his aching forehead and winces slightly. “Or not,” the man decides, reaching out as well and rubbing his fingers gently against Daryl’s temples and right in the center of his forehead, where the pain is the strongest. “You’re not used to working your ‘third eye’ like this, I’m guessing. Soon you’ll be able to conjure and hold things for as long as you want. You just need to be patient, Daryl.”

“Yeah.” Leaning into Rick’s touches a little, he makes a quiet, pleased noise at how much better it feels to have someone else soothing hurts than doing it himself. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Rick. When those careful, clever fingers trail down to rub beneath his eyes, he hums and nuzzles into the contact the way Jax would if he wanted more scratches behind his ears. Rick laughs quietly, but it’s a fond sound, so Daryl doesn’t pull away. His eyes crack open when one large, warm palm cups the nape of his neck, and then Rick’s forehead is bumping against his and their noses are brushing.

“May I kiss you, Daryl?” Rick whispers, and his breath is warm against Daryl’s lips. It smells vaguely minty and musky; like he was chewing gum but the scent has faded to something more natural. Looking at Rick, at his storm-colored eyes that are liquid and serene, the archer licks his lower lip and pulls it between his teeth, chewing on it more out of habit than nervousness. He nods slowly, his eyes fluttering closed, and he slowly lets out his next breath as he readies himself.

“Yeah.”

Rick’s lips are warm and a little chapped, but still full and soft overall. They press against his in a chaste kiss, something that isn’t demanding or pressing. When they move against his, he clumsily copies, pecking little nuzzles against the man’s mouth and feeling the way heat crawls across his cheeks and down his throats—tingles through the rest of him until he’s trembling faintly from so much sensation and his hands are seeking Rick’s shirt. He fists the front of it, unsure of what else to do, and he hears the deep, responding rumble just as much as he feels it against his mouth and his knuckles.

When Rick starts to kiss him a little firmer, putting a little more intent behind every slide of their mouths together, Daryl’s shudder is full-body and he tries to get closer, even though the angle is awkward.

“ _Rick_ ,” he whispers, pulling back and groaning. The man rumbles again, deep and low and pleased, and then those lips are on Daryl’s neck and his head is falling back, one hand coming up to thread in short hair. He misses the curls, misses the length it used to be, but maybe it’s for the best. Right now all he’d probably end up doing would be yanking, and he can’t imagine it would feel very good.

“You’re so responsive,” Rick purrs, the words buzzing against his flesh like electricity and making him whimper. It’s a pitiful, needy sound, and he should be ashamed that something so desperate came out of him, but all he can think about is getting closer, getting _more_. Something in his belly aches, feeling empty, and before he can try to convince himself not to he’s shoving Rick back and climbing over his thighs, spreading his knees wide to settle on either side of them; using his hand in Rick’s hair to drag him up into a kiss that his more an artless mashing of mouths. Rick groans and steadies him, a hand on his cheek and the other still heavy at his nape.

Daryl whines and rolls his hips, instinctively searching for the friction that his biology and porn have both promised will feel wonderful. And oh god, it _does_ , because Rick arches his hips to grind up against him in return and he slams his palm down on the sun-heated rock beneath them, choking on another noise. It’s too much, too overwhelming—it’s everything at once, from the heat caressing his skin to the warmth stroking through his insides like flickering flames that are swiftly building into a familiar feeling. His cock is hard, his hole aching, and when Rick licks deliberately across his mouth, he opens up to the man’s tongue. It curls in, curious and probing, and Daryl’s shaking, his magic swirling around them unchecked. When it glances off of Rick’s, silver-green and silver-blue meeting and testing one another out, thunder rumbles and the forest around them becomes overgrown and tangled.

“Stop,” he gasps, shoving himself back and almost falling over the edge of the boulder. Rick catches him, crooning softly. He lets go as soon as Daryl has his balance back, his eyes dark except for his pupils, which are glowing with pinpricks of silver-white that reminds the teenager of lightning bolts.

“I’m sorry,” Rick whispers, rubbing a hand over his face and drawing his knees up to prop his arms on them. He wipes at his mouth and drags his nails through his beard, and the sound is enough to make Daryl shiver anew. “I pushed too far.”

“Weren’t just you,” Daryl snorts, shaking his head and biting hard at his thumb. His lips feel swollen and tender, and even the pressure of his nail against them is enough to make him twitch even if he doesn’t stop ripping at his cuticle. “I was an avid participant, in case you ain’t noticed. S’just… was a lot. Ain’t used ta…” He can’t say it, can’t admit that he’s a _virgin_ in all of the ways that matter, but Rick seems to understand anyway. The man nods, his eyes clearing with the clouds as the storm his passion had threatened to unleashes dissipates along with the lingering tension.

“I’ll wait as long as you need me to, Daryl. Getting to be around you is more important than getting to kiss you. Although that is a plus.” It’s light and teasing, meant to be something fun instead of something pressuring, and Daryl rolls his eyes even though his lips twitch into a small, shy smile.

“Ain’t that bad a kisser yerself, Rick,” he huffs. Something that has been nagging at him for a while makes him look up through his bangs, brushing them aside to better see the man lounging on his favorite boulder and watching him with a smile. “S’yer last name, anyway?”

“Grimes,” Rick laughs, shaking his head. “Rick Grimes. Can’t believe I haven’t told you, yet. Guess I’ve been distracted.”

“You’n me both,” Daryl huffs. “Guess we ain’t really learned much ‘bout each other, huh, ‘sides the obviously.”

“We could fix that,” the man suggests, and his grin is a little sharp and a lot playful. Daryl eyes him warily, wondering what he could be playing at with an expression like that. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s nothing bad. Just a little game, so we could learn more about each other.”

“Ain’t we a little old for games?” He’s intrigued, though. Jax is fast asleep, curled up against Nathan’s side while the lion looks out into the forest. He’s an enormous, regal beast, and the way the light catches in the different shades of his mane makes him look like he’s haloed by bronze fire. The lion is impressive, and he’s a perfect representation of Rick’s soul.

“Never too old for 20 Questions. It’s a game that adapts to fit any age.”

“The fuck?” Daryl thinks he’s heard of that somewhere before, but he’s not entirely positive as to where. Either way, if it’ll help him learn more about Rick, he can’t see how that’ll be a bad thing. “Who goes first?”

“You can, if you’d like.” Rick turns so he’s sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the boulder, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head back to let the sun spill across his cheeks and his eyelids. Daryl is mesmerized, too busy staring, and it takes one of Rick’s eyes slitting open and the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk for the archer to remember that they’re supposed to be playing a game.

“How’d you get so good at all’a this?” A wave of his hand encompasses everything around them—the nature, the magic, and when he finally gets a good look at the forest within a twenty-yard radius of them, he winces. The shrubs have exploded, a few branches are actually groaning under the weight, and the trees are saturated with his magic. He’s pumped out too much, more than the plants can take, and he rushes to fix what he’s done with low, whispered apologies as he bleeds the excess magic from the forest and funnels it down into the closest ley-line. Once everything is back to a close approximation of what it should be, he turns to look at Rick and gasps in surprise when a quick kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth. Twitching away more out of embarrassment, he tries to ignore the prickling blush he can feel painting his cheeks and runs a hand back through his messy, tangled hair. It’s getting too long again—long enough for his bangs to brush his cheeks and the rest to cover his ears and his nape. He should cut it, if for no other reason than to keep it out of his eyes while he’s hunting.

“It’s a long story,” Rick whispers against his jaw, pressing a lingering kiss there that makes Daryl bite his lip and close his eyes. “You got anywhere important you gotta be?”

“Nowhere more important than this,” he murmurs back, his words barely-audible. He feels sleep-heavy and content, his skin getting redder the longer he stays in the sun, but he can’t find the gumption in himself to move and spare his shoulders or his back—especially not when Rick’s calloused palm drags down his spine and fingertips trace lines between his scars like Rick is turning the damage into something beautiful that only he can see.

“My family has followed the pagan religion for generations…”

Daryl lets Rick’s low, rumbling voice wrap around him, listening to the man tell him about the magic that runs through his bloodline and the gods his family has followed for years. There are more names than the archer has ever heard—names that never came up in school, when they studied the Greek Gods and mythology for a brief time. There are names that ring with power, titles that strike a chord within him, and he shivers at how Rick’s magic reacts to a few as well.

Believing in one all-powerful God has never made sense to Daryl, but the Gods Rick talks of, the ones who have progressed through the ages, who are powerful in their own rights and in their own particular ways… Those Gods sound more believable to him. They sound like deities he would want to know more about.

They play the game until the sun is beginning to set and the air is growing cooler as night falls. Daryl doesn’t want Rick to leave, wants to follow him home like a lost pup who is eager to walk in the shadow of the one person who has ever shown him kindness without a hint of danger, but he won’t. Instead, he knocks their shoulders together and offers a shy smile, and Rick presses a gentle kiss against his forehead. Jax and Nathan unwind themselves from one another, the collie sprawling at Daryl’s feet and panting.

Together, they watch Rick and his soul animal walk away, and when he pauses just before he’s out of sight and looks back over his shoulder at Daryl, the archer’s breath catches at the way the setting sun turns the man’s eyes to fire.

“Good night, Daryl,” he says, his voice low and gentle, and it’s so at odds with the intimidating figure he cuts, the setting sun cutting through the heavy branches creating a backdrop that makes Daryl feel like he’s looking at one of the forest Gods Rick had told him about. It’s probably a blasphemous thought, but he can’t bring himself to feel too bad about it—not when the man is so at one with the nature he loves so much in this peaceful, quiet moment.

“See ya later, Rick,” he whispers, his voice as fleeting as the wind and lost just as easily by the distance that seems to yawn between them like a bottomless chasm. He doesn’t deserve to even look at something so close to perfection—not when he is so tainted in comparison.

Before anything else can be said, he turns around and walks away, letting the forest swallow him up the way it always has and leaving Rick standing haloed in fire and touched by the wilds, his eyes burning as they follow Daryl’s retreat like the man knows exactly what is running through his thoughts.

A shadow passes over him, and he glances up in time to watch a hawk circle above him and wing westward, it’s keening cry echoing like a melody he could understand easily, if only he took the time to try.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just start by saying - no, I am not done with this fic. There will be more parts, believe me. HOWEVER, everything that I want to put in this cannot fit into this part of the story, because I fucked myself over with the timeline and their ages. So DO NOT WORRY, there will be more. It's just that this chapter in their lives is, y'know, done.
> 
> At least I gave you some porn? *helpless shrug*
> 
> I mean, the chapter is a bit shorter than the other ones, but hey, what can ya do.
> 
> I did have to edit the tags a li'l. Plz forgive me.

It snows on Daryl’s birthday—a blizzard unlike anything Georgia has seen in decades. He goes to bed the night before with only a few inches covering the bare ground and the barren trees, and he wakes up on his birthday to a blanket of white that is almost up to his hips. It’s certainly too deep for Jax to get around easily, even if he is incorporeal. In the end, he has to plow tracks from the opening of the tent in order for the collie to run around and play, and he thanks whoever is up there that his soul animal doesn’t have bodily functions like a flesh-and-blood dog, or else this would be a lot harder.

Looking up at the overcast sky, he lowers his lashes to protect his eyes from the flakes that are still whipping around. The blizzard is in full swing, promising to dump even more snow across his corner of the world, and he’s glad for his brief stint at woodworking. It’s helped him put a kind of awning up over his tent, something sturdy and thickly built, and it’s protected him from the worst of the snow. Otherwise he probably wouldn’t have woken up at all.

His breath billows out in clouds of white, whipped from his throat almost before they’re fully formed. Nature is angry today, Her wrath all-encompassing and powerful and yet still so beautiful to witness. Turning in a slow circle, he looks out through the forest and sees nothing but an endless stretch of powdery snow that has barely been disturbed by any of the wildlife—or has already covered the tracks of anything brave enough to venture out of its burrow.

He’s nineteen today. It should be something big, and maybe if he was someone else, it would be. As it is, Daryl doesn’t really see the point in celebrating something that is ultimately meaningless. He’s a year older, and hardly any wiser. He’s homeless, living in a _tent_ , and there’s an ache in his chest that he rubs at absently as he whistles for Jax and watches the collie come leaping back through the snow drifts. Since the day he watched his father’s house be bulldozed to the ground, he has been living out in the woods the way his family was always meant to—hardened by the elements until there’s nothing weak left. There is no fat thickening his cheeks, no softness at his midsection—he is lean and corded in muscle from climbing and running and _surviving_ the way people were always meant to before laziness and greed overtook everything else.

Daryl is the predator that slips silently through the woods, prowling across his territory and leaving barely any trace aside from a smear of blood from a kill or the steaming organs piled as an offering on a moss-covered stone. He does not speak unless it is to Rick—does not leave his forest unless the man coaxes him away from his sanctuary. They have fought many times, because Rick does not want Daryl to live in a tent and Daryl refuses to live in the town. He does not belong there; something that is glaringly obvious whenever he _does_ have to venture through the maze of tall buildings and see all of the people who look at him with wariness and suspicion. They look at Daryl and they see a feral beast, and he doesn’t care even a little bit. His narrowed eyes look back coldly, his lips twitching like they’re going to curl back to show his teeth, and the gawkers hurry on their way.

He has hardly let Rick kiss him since the day they played 20 Questions, the two of them warmed by the summer heat and relaxed upon his sunning rock. There was an easiness to things then—there still would be, if Daryl would let himself reach for it. As it is, he’s amazed that Rick is still waiting for him. Maybe Daryl is just being stubborn, or maybe he’s trying to prove to the man what he already should know. Rick Grimes is apparently just as stubborn, though, because he never asks for more and he never gets angry when Daryl leans in for a kiss but goes no further. He is patient, a predator well used to waiting for his meal, and Daryl already knows that he cannot hold off the inevitable for much longer. He yearns to surrender, to _crawl_ to Rick and kneel before him and confess things that would make even sinners avert their eyes and cover their ears. He wants those hands on him, wants those fingers _in him_ ; wants to be laid out on a bed or on a carpet of grass and leaves and be loved the way he can see Rick so desperately wants to—the way Daryl is so desperate for as well, if only he could stop being so goddamn stubborn and _let himself._

“Daryl.”

By now, he’s learned well when Rick is coming. The months of practice have given him enough control to tell when the man is looking for him—to hold out his palm and make his magic bloom in a way he desires for it to, rather than just watching it shape itself. He is the master of his own power, and he is also respectful of it. Nature is wild and free, and Daryl is as well, and he would never try to trap or cage it in a way that it wouldn’t want, because they would die in captivity. He is not a garden, and neither is the natural magic that dances beneath the frozen ground, feeding winter along and waiting patiently for spring so that it may grow untethered once more.

“Hey,” he says quietly, turning to look at the man and already biting at his lip. Rick has let his hair grow out again, his beard dark against his jaw in a way that makes the archer want to rub his face against it until his skin is scraped red. He wants to bite the hinge of that jaw, lick down the strong throat—wants to roll onto his back and offer his belly, or drop to his hands and knees and arch his spine until Rick’s weight covers him and pins him the way he is desperate for.

“How are you this morning?” Rick reaches out and cups his cheek, and Daryl tilts his head to nuzzle against the soft glove as he breathes in the scent of wool and something spicy. He kisses the base of Rick’s thumb, looking at him from beneath his lashes, and his smile is small but pleased when he’s coaxed forward into a proper kiss. He kisses back easily, opening his mouth to Rick and letting the man’s tongue in to tangle against his own. The air is freezing cold against his exposed skin, but the rest of him is burning hot as he wraps his arms around Rick’s neck and arches against him.

A hand slides down his back, cold fingers pressing up beneath his thick jacket—the only thing he’s let Rick give him, after the first cold night when winter truly descended upon them. Daryl had gotten a bad chill and had ended up with a nasty cold; hadn’t been able to hide it from Rick, who he’s pretty sure knows him better than he knows himself sometimes. He does really like the jacket, it’s thick and warm and it combats the winter chill easily when he’s not tied into the ley-lines to keep himself warm. He has to be careful, doing that. Sometimes it’s hard for him to find his way back, if he stays immersed in the earth that long.

“Rick.” Pulling back, he puts his mouth against that scruffy, short beard the way he’s been dying to do, lipping and biting along the line of Rick’s jaw and groaning breathily into the man’s ear. He doesn’t mean to tease, he just still gets easily overwhelmed by what being so close to Rick and kissing him, being kissed by him, does _every single time_.

“Inside,” the man rumbles, his voice dropping low and echoing like thunder. His eyes flash like lightning, electricity sparking at his temples, and Daryl shudders and turns to duck back through the flap; holding it open for Rick to follow and then zipping it shut behind them. The tent is large enough to fit three people comfortably, so there’s plenty of room for them to kick off their snow-covered boots before Rick tumbles him back onto the thin, soft mattress of blankets. Daryl hisses when his head hits them a little too hard, and then Rick is cupping the back of his head, his fingers carding through the short strands of dark hair there, and their lips meet again in a series of slow, burning kisses that make Daryl feel like there’s fire beneath his skin instead of nature. He gasps out a puff of silver-green when Rick’s mouth presses against the thin, sensitive skin beneath his jaw, blunt teeth scraping and making his spine bow sharply and his legs spread wide in response.

“Didn’t answer my question,” Rick whispers, his lips touching the lobe of Daryl’s ear. He nips at it and the teenager whines, turning and arching his head to welcome more, to welcome _all_ of it, or at least as much as he can stand for now.

“M’fuckin’ _fine_ , Rick, _ahnn_ ,” he gasps. He fists one hand in the fabric of the man’s shirt, grinding his knuckles between Rick’s shoulder blades in a way that makes the older man _growl_ and bite at the spot just behind his ear, his teeth digging into the flesh there until Daryl _keens_ and paws at the dip of the man’s spine, his fingers frantically searching for hot flesh and spasming when they find it. Rick is _thrumming_ like a live wire, the electricity in him spilling out into the air and making it crackle. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Mmm, love it when ya get like this.” Lips drag down his throat, a tongue slipping out to lap up the sweat pooling at the hollow dip where his collarbones meet. “So responsive, darlin’. So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

He should stop this. He’s so hard he _hurts_ , and his words are lost to gasps and soft noises as Rick slowly unbuttons and unzips his jacket, parting it and running his hand across Daryl’s firm body. He’s still wearing a shirt, which is just making him even more sensitive to the way the fabric rasps over his hypersensitive flesh—especially when Rick pinches a nipple through it and his hips buck in response, a louder cry torn from his throat and caught by the thin walls of the tent; swallowed fully by the raging blizzard beyond his flimsy dwelling.

“Can I touch you, Daryl?”

“Fuck, Rick, _please_ ,” he whimpers. It’s getting harder to focus on anything but the comforting weight of Rick above him, of the way he fits between Daryl’s flexing thighs like he was always meant to be there. He knocks his head back against the blankets again, moaning and gasping and _trying_ to remember why stopping is supposed to be a good idea when all he’s done for the last several months is stop them. If it’s a matter of seeing how patient Rick can be, the man has already proved himself time and time again.

“Need to hear you say it, Daryl. C’mon, use your words.”

He’s about to, his submission ready to spill like a raging stream over a rocky outcrop, thundering to its inevitable conclusion. Before he can, before he can grant the permission he’s so desperate to give, he hears Jax yelp and Nathan rumble, and _heat_ floods through him in a way he’s never felt before. Rick rolls to the side, slamming a fist against the ground and arching his back with a low, snarling hiss. Daryl scrambles to get the flap of the tent open, his eyes scanning the snow-covered landscape for their soul animals while his chest heaves.

Jax is beneath Nathan, his upper body lowered and his hindquarters raised high, his tail curling up over his back. The lion is over top of him, Jax’s scruff caught securely in his teeth, and it takes Daryl a second to realize what he’s looking at—to recognize the body language and the implications behind it. His breath stutters in his throat, his fingers curling into tight fists, and his eyes roll back in his head a little when Nathan’s bulk covers his collie’s slender body and he feels the heat and pressure as though he is Jax and Jax is him—and aren’t they one and the same, anyway? Two forms that share one soul wholly, so of course _now_ would be the time for Jax to make the decision for them. They’re both tired of waiting, they both _want_ , and Daryl’s back arches when Nathan roars triumphantly, and then he’s being hauled back inside the tent and Rick is pinning him down.

“ _Daryl_ ,” he growls, and his pupils are blue-white like his lightning, his body hard and lean and powerful as he cups the back of the archer’s head and tangles his fingers in his hair; coaxing him to bare his throat and biting down as soon as Daryl obeys with a wordless whine. “What do you say, darlin’?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Daryl hisses, low and thick and barely coherent, but it’s the word Rick has been waiting for too long to hear, and his rumble seems to shake the ground around them as he sits back and drags his jacket off. Outside, the world is a swirling cloud of white, but inside the tent it’s hot enough that they’re sweating, Daryl’s hair clinging to his nape and the sides of his throbbing throat. He claws out of his own jacket and shirt, leaving his chest bare to Rick’s possessive, hungry gaze. His cheeks prickle hotly, and he knows he’s blushing all the way down to his chest—can see the way Rick grins at the sight he makes before the man leans down and nuzzles up his jaw until they can kiss again.

It’s different this time, their magic flowing with each breath until Daryl inhales silver-blue and Rick drinks down his own silvery-green. It buzzes through him like a hit of nicotine, making his head fuzzy and his vision swim. His hips arch, grinding up against Rick’s stomach, and he chokes on a desperate noise before he rolls them so he’s on top—perched on Rick’s hips and scratching at his chest and down his defined stomach, nails catching on his dark shirt, until the man is snarling and palming at the front of Daryl’s jeans. He spits out a moan, rocking into the contact and letting his head tip back.

Rick flips them over, then; reaching down and popping open Daryl’s jeans before he’s shoving a hand into the younger man’s boxers and fisting his cock. Daryl moans and bucks into the unyielding pressure, fucking up again and again even though it’s too dry and a little too tight. He is beyond caring, because soon enough his pre-cum is smeared all over Rick’s hand and the slide is a lot easier and so, so much nicer. He’s sobbing for breath and digging his nails into Rick’s shoulder—biting savagely into the fabric of his shirt until he thinks he might be chewing holes through it. Something tells him Rick won’t give a shit, will actually _smile_ , and it makes Daryl bite down harder and grind his teeth until he feels the material give and enamel grinds. The pressure is building too fast, his body unable to fight that which it has always craved, and he knows it’s coming a split second before the tension shatters.

Jax yelps, and Daryl _howls_ , and he comes so hard over Rick’s fist, still trapped in his own pants, that the world goes white. Thunder roars and the forest quakes, the elements battering at one another until a happy medium can be reached and nature can settle into its wildness peacefully once more.

“There it is,” Rick hisses, bringing his hand up and looking at the milky pearls dripping down toward his wrist. Daryl’s thumb is already in his mouth, and he can’t decide if he wants to suck on it or bite at it more, his eyes wide and his breathing wrecked as he watches Rick sniff at his hand before his wicked tongue curls out to lap up Daryl’s cum like it’s fucking melted ice cream.

“ _Shit,_ ” he whimpers, and that’s the last fucking straw. He sits up enough to shove Rick back against the blanket and falls between the man’s knees, muscling his way in and creating a space for himself with the width of his shoulders. Hesitation is a thing of the past, and his stubbornness is thoroughly disintegrated. There’s nothing to stop him anymore when he mouths at the bulge in Rick’s jeans and feels the way it throbs against his swollen, tingling mouth. He doesn’t stop to think about what he’s doing, about the practicalities and anything else that could be involved. He just yanks until the man’s pants are open and drags his hot, twitching cock out through the slit of his boxers, and then Daryl is wrapping his lips around the head and _sucking_.

_“Fuck!”_

He hears the impact of Rick’s head against the blankets, but he doesn’t look up—can’t, really, with the way a hand comes down on the back of his head to hold him in place. Daryl whines at the possessive touch, flicking his tongue against the broad head of the man’s cock and slurping obscenely as he tastes the bitter, salty drips of pre-cum. He’s never tasted any but his own before, and there’s something so different about Rick’s. It almost feels like a tingling sensation when he pushes down further and tries to mind his teeth, overwhelmed by the musky scent and the powerful taste. His hips arch, bowing his back, and Rick sits up as much as he can. It pushes him a little farther, and Daryl’s eyes are already watering, his jaw aching, but he’s _ravenous_ as he sucks and bobs his head and claws at the blankets with one hand; grips the outside of Rick’s thigh tightly with the other until it has to hurt, but Rick only _rumbles_ at him and pets through his hair.

“You look gorgeous like this,” he says, his voice deep and raspy and _powerful_. Daryl moans and tries to take more, tries to take it _all_ , and he honestly can’t understand why he’s waited _so long_ for this, when it has been his to have all along. Rick’s fingers trace his stretched lips, gathering up some of the drool he can’t keep from leaking free, and his thick, powerful thighs are bracing Daryl’s shoulders, caging him but not keeping him tethered.

Pulling back with a wet pop, he turns his head to suck Rick’s fingers clean and nuzzles them, gasping raggedly. He feels _wrecked,_ his magic boiling over and his nerves on fire—he’s empty and he _needs_ and Rick is _giving it to him,_ so he ducks his head and takes the man’s cock back into his mouth, takes as much of it as he can until his gag reflex tries to kick in and tears drip from his cheeks, and still he tries to take more.

“Easy, Daryl, don’t force yourself,” Rick purrs, and when he tries to guide the archer into an easier position, he resists with a rumbling growl that makes the cock he’s trying to force down is throat swell. Rick bites at his own hand, the one on Daryl’s head fisting his hair hard enough to hurt, and he _whines_ as his hips grind down and the friction takes him apart in a way he’s never felt before. Rick is unmaking him down to his atoms, flaying apart everything and carving a place for himself so that they won’t be two separate entities once their skin is knitted back together again.

The sounds Daryl is making aren’t human—needy little desperate whines and garbled moans as he straight-up chokes himself on Rick’s dick, his jaw aching sharply now and his throat feeling raw as he pushes through the urge to gag and his lips sink down a little farther until they’re stretched wide and _burning_ near the base of Rick’s cock. His nose is pushed into the dark curls that _reek_ of Rick’s natural, masculine scent, and he feels his eyes rolling back in his head as he breathes it in greedily and lifts up onto his knees a little so he can reach his own throbbing, leaking dick.

The new position forces Rick to lean back a little, and Daryl makes a noise of protest when the angle his head is at means he can’t take the man as deeply as he wants to. He pulls back and sucks at just the head again, tonguing the slit; enjoying himself until Rick drags him up so they’re face to face. He can’t even protest, because then his mouth is being claimed in a way that makes him fight to get closer, his knees settling on either side of those strong thighs and his hands tangling as much as they can in Rick’s hair as their hips rock together.

“Please,” he rasps, and his voice is _ruined_ but he doesn’t care. “Please, let me, want it so bad, _please_.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Rick whispers, licking the excess saliva from his chin and dragging his tongue over Daryl’s cheeks to lap up his tears. He feels the man shudder, feels how the cock dragging against his bare stomach twitches, and he narrows his eyes a little. If Rick is going to try to make him stop, he’s going to punch him in the solar plexus and _finish what he started_ while the asshole tries to catch his breath.

“Fuck my throat,” he growls, biting harshly at the bearded jaw and rocking his ass down deliberately. “Want ya ta fuckin’ shoot down m’throat, Rick; want it all over m’face. _Please_.”

Maybe he should be paying better attention to what’s coming out of his mouth, but when he sees the way Rick’s eyes flash like lightning and his hands grip Daryl’s skin hard enough to leave behind bruises he’s not at all averse to having, he whines approvingly and tries to get them out of the rest of their clothes. They need to be naked for this, he needs to feel every inch of Rick’s hard, lean body against his own. He needs that cock back in his mouth, wants to feel it splitting him open, and Rick _snarls_ against his mouth before shoving Daryl back and slamming him against the ground.

“Want my cock?” he hisses, and this is a whole new side of Rick, something primal and possessive and dominant, and Daryl _keens_ as he nods and opens his mouth; tilting his head up eagerly and grabbing at those strong, bare hips—digging his thumbs into the prominent dips of them and rubbing encouragingly as Rick straddles his chest and edges up toward his throat, his cock bobbing enticingly as a drop of pre-cum wells at the tip.

“Use those words, Daryl, I know you can.”

“I want yer fuckin’ cock,” the archer growls, licking his sore, swollen lips and opening his mouth prettily.

“Gonna run away after we do this? Gonna make me chase you down and wait a little longer?”

“No, Rick, no, god, _please_.”

“Good boy.”

 _Jesus fucking Christ_. Daryl can’t even say anything to that, because then Rick’s cock is pushing insistently into his mouth and he’s choking on his own sounds as well as the head, forcing past his gag reflex _again_ and realizing how much nicer everything goes if he tilts his head back just a little and lets Rick fuck his throat the way he’s so desperate for. The angle is still a little awkward, and it’s a bit harder for him to breathe like this, but he can’t really find it in himself to care too much when it gets him exactly what he wants.

When Rick pulls back, he can’t stop the way he whines and tightens his hold on those sinful hips. “The fuck’re ya doin’?” he grunts, and his voice sounds _rough_ , like he’s been gargling rocks and salt. Rick doesn’t reply, at least not verbally. Instead he swings around until his cock is bobbing above Daryl’s mouth, the tip dragging across his lips, and the man’s own mouth is poised above his own erection.

Daryl _whines_ , his hips already lifting before Rick’s mouth open and his full, perfect lips close around the tip. He sucks languidly, pulling back with a filthy sound to lick down the shaft and breathe hotly over the hypersensitive skin, and Daryl _almost_ forgets what he’d wanted to do until Rick’s hips drop a little and his cockhead nudges at the archer’s parted lips, pre-cum dripping onto his teeth in a way that makes his eyes roll back. He grabs Rick’s ass and _yanks_ him down, pulling a little too hard and choking when it’s too much, too soon—his hips bucking in response as he thrashes. Rick’s strong fingers grip at him hard enough to bruise, pinning him down, and when he takes Daryl in as far as he can and swallows deliberately, the teenager comes _again_ with the force of a hurricane. The trees shrouding his tent groan and creak, and the ground shakes like there’s an earthquake, and when he cracks open his eyes he sees the blinding flash of lightning even through the dark gray ceiling as Rick’s cock pushes as deep as the man can get it and he comes down Daryl’s throat with a broken snarl. It _hurts_ , because he's never done anything like this before, but it’s the kind of pain that he wouldn’t mind feeling again and again, for every fucking day of his life, and he holds Rick in place and swallows as much as he can until it’s either pull away or throw up, so he drops back with a raspy gasp and feels the cum he couldn’t swallow spill out of his lips as the last few streaks paint across his cheeks.

“ _Jesus_ , darlin’,” Rick pants as he swings back around. Daryl hums, feeling pleased and proud of himself, and the man kisses him with a passion that borders on painful, their swollen mouths wide against one another and their tongues lashing—mingling their flavors into something that makes Daryl shudder and keen; wrapping his arms tightly around Rick’s neck and holding him in place as he sucks every last trace of himself from the older man’s tongue and licks it from his teeth and gums. When he finally manages to tear himself free, a string of saliva keeps them connected until he licks at his throbbing mouth and it breaks. Rick wipes it from his chin with a tender swipe of his thumb, crooning and purring like his lion soul as he dips his head to nose at the sweaty underside of Daryl’s jaw—coaxing him into tilting his head back and giving his lover all of the access he wants to his sensitive throat and the rabbit-fast beast of his pulse.

“You’re incredible,” he rumbles, and the archer shivers a little even as he warms at the praise. He runs his fingers through Rick’s hair, tangling his fingers in the curls and smiling a stupid little smile.

“We should let the beasts back in,” he whispers, because he can still feel the low throb of heat against his ass and thighs, but it’s nothing like it was before. He already knows that if they look outside, they’ll find Jax and Nathan curled around one another, Rick’s lion pinning his collie down and grooming him.

“You should come back home with me, so I can take care of you properly,” Rick retorts. He strokes Daryl’s cheek, and the touch is at once fond and hopeful, those storm-dark eyes clearing to cloudless skies, and the archer can’t stop himself from pressing his cheek into the touch and nuzzling at Rick’s wrist, breathing him in deeply and feeling the slumbering earth below them warm and rouse against his back, even through the layers of snow and frozen soil. He doesn’t want to leave the forest, doesn’t want to leave this place that is more like home to him than any structure or dwelling, but he recognizes that Rick isn’t asking him to do that. He’s not forcing Daryl to choose, because as much as Rick means to him, they both know what the younger man’s answer would be if anyone tried to tame him like that.

“Fine,” he breathes, the air leaving his lungs twining with green and silver that is reminiscent of his sunning rock, because pure silver can never be found in nature. Rick’s smile is as blinding as the sun, his eyes flashing with the white-blue of his electricity, and Daryl knows that his own are glowing green and bronze in return as he rolls his body up against the unstoppable force above him—feeling the lean, supple muscles that house immeasurable power that can destroy just as easily as it can protect.

“Say the words, darlin’. You know I gotta hear ‘em.” Silver-blue breathes out against his cheek, sparking in little arcs that make him shiver and twitch and press closer still, his legs falling open for Rick to settle between them like he’s never belonged anywhere else.

“Take me to your home, Rick,” he growls, and he can hear the pleased rumble of Rick’s lion; can see Nathan’s shadow as he emerges from the raging depths of the blizzard and brushes against the bowing side of the tent. Jax is his smaller shadow, whining and yipping and pawing to be let in. Daryl looks at them, then back at Rick, and his smile is much smaller, but no less honest.

“Take us home.”


End file.
